


Possible 'verse Timestamps

by terriblelifechoices



Series: Possible [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Cooking Lessons, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Kid Fic, M/M, Mentors, Mpreg, Poetry, Wands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 00:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 35,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14248788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terriblelifechoices/pseuds/terriblelifechoices
Summary: Timestamps from the Possible 'verse: past, present and future, mostly written as comment fic on AO3 and tumblr.  Tags will be updated as chapters go up.





	1. St. Brigid's Hospital, circa 1923

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking a Wednesday & Saturday posting schedule?
> 
> Written for the fantastic [gingermaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingermaya/pseuds/gingermaya) of the fabulous headcanons. Cross-posted to tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/160142903566/my-brain-has-decided-that-comment-fic-needs-to) Graves has very dysfunctional ways of expressing his love for other people.

_St. Brigid's Hospital, circa 1923_

 

Seraphina opened her eyes slowly, squinting in the too bright lights of St. Brigid's hospital. Why were hospital lights always so _bright?_ She groaned faintly, dragging the sheet up over her head as a shield.

Strong hands clawed the sheet away a second later, dragging it and most of the blankets down the bed. Seraphina cursed and struggled into a sitting position so she could glare at the asshole responsible.

"Seraphina," Percival said, his tone very even. His suit -- which he'd been wearing during the attack -- was rumpled and bloodstained, which had to be giving the nurses fits. There was at least a day's worth of stubble on his chin, and his eyes were bloodshot. He'd been crying, she thought, or maybe he hadn't slept much.

"Percival," she said. Her shoulder twinged. She shouldn't have used the deflection charm. She should have used a shield charm, she saw that now.

"I'm curious," he said, checking her wound with the sort of efficiency that would have made a field medic proud. He rested one hand on hers when he was finished, like he thought she might disappear if he let her go. "Have you _completely lost your fucking mind?"_

"Ugh," said Seraphina, slumping back into the pillows. "No," she said, fully aware of how sullen she sounded.

"Really," said Percival, clearly ramping up for a good hissy fit. "Because the last time I checked, you're the godsbedamned _president_ Seraphina! You. Are. Not. A. First. Responder. You had no business being in a twelve block radius of Lorelai's bar! You should have stayed in the Pentagram office where you'd be safe!"

"Yes!" she shot back. "I am the _president,_ magic curse you, and it is _my job_ to lead our people! To make sure they're safe!"

"No, _my job_ is to keep our people safe. _Your job_ is to make sure that they understand that MACUSA represents their interests, and protects those interests from anything the fucking International Confederation of Wizards thinks they have any right to control. Merlin and Morgana know the bastards aren't going to listen to _me_ when I tell them to fuck off."

"People very rarely respond well to being told to fuck off," Seraphina pointed out, purely to piss him off. "Particularly not in politics."

Percival ignored that in favor of lecturing her on why the president of MACUSA had no business being anywhere near one of Magical Security's investigations. He had a lot to say on that subject, and it took him the better part of an hour to get all his fear and frustration off his chest. He practically fell over once he was finished, slumping face first onto her hospital bed. He didn't let go of her hand, either, just clung to it while he slept.

"You're an ass," Seraphina informed him. "I _know_ I'm not a first responder." She smiled a little as Percival snored on. "But I know you've got my back, too."


	2. The Woolworth Building, January 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the glorious [flightinflame,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/pseuds/flightinflame) who thought Seraphina and Hughes would have a good time playing cat and mouse with the ICW. References this scene in Chapter 4 of Whatever Remains, However Improbable:
> 
> _“Oh? Why do you want me to take Hughes, if not for that?” Seraphina asked._
> 
> _“So Win can flush them out,” Graves said. “Put Hughes in a dress. Get her in front of the delegation. And then let Hughes be Hughes.”_
> 
> _“You want me to let Hughes cuss out a foreign delegation?”_
> 
> Cross-posted to tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/160205140376/return-of-the-comment-fic)

_The Woolworth Building, January 1927_

 

"Madam President," said Hughes, demure and polite and the very picture of proper American witch-hood. Her dark hair was looped in its usual complicated series of braids, but she was wearing a somber navy blue dress that emphasized her hourglass figure rather than the breadth of her shoulders or the strength of her arms.

"Auror Hughes," Seraphina said, carefully neutral. There was something about the sight of Winifred Hughes in a dress that was faintly unnerving. She wondered how Percival dealt with it. _"Attend,"_ she commanded.

Hughes snapped to attention like a dog on the hunt, trailing obediently behind Seraphina and into the Pentagram Chamber. If she found it intimidating, it didn't show on her face.

The International Confederation of Wizards had been arguing for days now. Everyone wanted a chance at having Grindelwald within their jurisdiction, and that was going to happen over Seraphina's cold, dead and _extremely hostile_ body. American Aurors had brought Grindelwald down, and he was going to stay in American custody until Seraphina was sure that wherever he was extradited to wouldn't fuck it up. (Seraphina was going to ignore Newt Scamander's involvement, because if she didn't, then she'd have to get involved in his creature-related mess and Seraphina wanted no part of that ulcer.)

"Madam President," one of the delegates began. "Grindelwald should be turned over to British authority. We can contain him, at Azkaban. He'll be no threat to anyone, there."

"Really?" Hughes drawled. "Are you _sure_ about that? Or are you just _so_ eager to suck Grindelwald's dick that it's making you fucking delusional?"

A resounding silence echoed around the Pentagram Chamber.

"Because the way I see it," Hughes continued, as brashly arrogant as Percival had been his first year at Ilvermorny, "is that the lot of you are fucking _morons_ who let Grindelwald out of Europe and onto _our_ side of the pond to cause trouble." She smiled, all teeth. "And now that we've got him in custody, the rest of you limp-dicked idiots want in on our collar."

"Auror Hughes!" Seraphina barked. "Stand down."

Hughes ignored her, exactly the way she was supposed to. "Sorry, boys. My boss is a bit softer on, well, _the soft,_ than I'd like." She made an excessively crude hand gesture, leaving no room for doubt about what she was referring to.

Seraphina stifled a giggle. The British delegate looked like he was maybe three inappropriate comments away from having some kind of stroke and passing out.

"Madam President," said one of the other delegates, voice stiff. "If you cannot control your ... guest ... than I suggest you remove her from this discussion."

"Oh?" Seraphina inquired. "Does Auror Hughes make you _uncomfortable?"_ She felt her lips curve up in a smile, sharp as the edge of a knife. "I wonder why that might be," she continued, conversational.

There was rather a lot of uncomfortable fidgeting in the audience. No one wanted to admit that a woman Auror made them feel uncomfortable. Not in front of a woman president.

Yes, Seraphina thought. This was going to be a lot more fun than Seraphina expected it to be. 

Madam Ya Zhou, the Chinese ICW delegate, caught Seraphina’s eye and smirked, clearly enjoying the show. She touched one of the strands of jade around her neck, activating the recording spell Seraphina knew was charmed into it.

_“Do_ I make you uncomfortable?” Hughes inquired, grinning dementedly. “Apologies. I didn’t realize politics was a game for delicate fucking flowers like you fine gentlemen. I always thought it was for, y’know, folks with big brass ones.” Another crude hand gesture demonstrated the relevant portion of necessary brass anatomy. “Boss, you been lyin’ to me about that?”

“Director Graves is your boss,” Seraphina reminded her. _“I_ am your boss’s boss. Do try to remember that, Auror Hughes.”

Hughes bobbed her head. She’d woven strands of crystal in her braids, and they sparkled distractingly whenever she moved her head. Seraphina suspected they’d been charmed to draw the eye. “Yes’m,” she said. 

One of the Scandinavian delegates smiled nastily at the mention of Percival. “And how _is_ dear Director Graves?” he inquired. “I trust he’s recovering from his … ordeal.”

Seraphina kept her expression serene. So. Word had gotten out, then. And now this petty little prick wanted to smear Percival’s reputation - to cast doubt on MACUSA’s Aurors and challenge their competence. Was it to make a case for removing Grindelwald into someone else’s custody, or was it personal? Percival had made enemies on MACUSA’s behalf his entire career.

On Seraphina’s behalf.

A hint of real anger crept into Hughes’ exaggerated façade. “You got something you wanna say?” she asked.

“Of course not,” the Scandinavian delegate said. “I’m simply impressed he survived so long in captivity.” His tone implied exactly the opposite, but his words were above reproach – especially when compared to Hughes’ conduct.

“He’s a wizard, not a unicorn,” Hughes retorted caustically. Her tone added the words _you dumbass_ clearly enough for everyone in the Chamber to hear. “What, you thought he was just gonna lay down and die in captivity? No American Auror worth their salt dies that easy. _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,”_ she reminded them. _It is sweet and fitting to die for your country._

The official motto of MACUSA’s Aurors was ‘always stay vigilant.’ It was an echo of Britain’s ‘constant vigilance,’ since that was Josiah Jackson’s primary inspiration for his Auror corps, but the unofficial motto had always been _dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_ dating all the way back to the original Twelve. It was, according to legend, what Geraint Graves had said to President Jackson when he’d volunteered for Auror training, standing over his father’s corpse with the President’s apologies still ringing in his ears.

American Aurors knew their duty, and frequently died for it. The same could be said of the rest of the world’s Aurors, but the rest of the world’s Aurors tried not to make it a habit. MACUSA’s Aurors treated it as a matter of fact. MACUSA had the highest death rate in the world for Aurors, but each and every one of them had earned their phoenix feather in the hall of fame.

And Hughes had just reminded them of that. That had to sting, Seraphina thought, watching the other delegates for signs of weakness. There were too many new faces – Grindelwald had done a lot of damage in Europe, and it showed – but she took note of which ones looked angry and which ones looked ashamed.

“That’s all very well and good,” the Scandinavian delegate said, “but Director Graves didn’t exactly follow through on that, did he?”

Seraphina put Hughes under _Petrificius Partialis_ before she could break the Scandinavian delegate’s neck and cause an international incident. 

The Scandinavian delegate was small potatoes. He was a petty thug, more concerned with winding Hughes up than he was with the potential prize of successfully slandering Percival’s reputation. 

Madam Ya Zhou looked a bit disappointed that her recording of today’s events wouldn’t include actual bloodshed. None of the delegates Seraphina actually knew had betrayed any reaction that was out of the ordinary.

Seraphina waited. It was odd, wasn’t it, that the _German_ delegate was the first one to lend support to the British delegate’s demand that Grindelwald be transferred to Azkaban. That sort of political maneuvering was meant to curry favor, but who with? The British? Or Grindelwald?

The Scandinavian delegate never noticed that she was a threat. Neither did the German one. 

Seraphina kept her serene expression, hiding her fangs the way a proper Horned Serpent should. It was all very well and good for Wampus’ like Percival and Hughes to bare their fangs at everything and everyone who irritated them even a little, but a Horned Serpent knew better.

A Horned Serpent only bared her fangs when she was ready to strike.


	3. The Woolworth Building, 1934

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delightful [dailandin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dailandin/pseuds/dailandin) mentioned that once the horrible Grindelwald business was over, Percival and Credence could focus on more important things, like continuing the Graves nameline. 
> 
> Credence is definitely more than up to the task. (Graves, on the other hand, remains pleasantly blindsided by "we should work on baby # whatever. Immediately. Please take your pants off and make that happen." But whatever Credence wants, Credence gets, so off the pants go.)
> 
> Encountering the Graves Brood probably gets added as an Auror Bingo square. (And again, once the kids are big enough to join MACUSA.) Seeing your Scary Bastard Boss as a doting parent probably messes with the junior Aurors heads. 
> 
> Cross-posted to tumblr [here](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/160758960661/the-fantastic-dailandin-mentioned-that-credence)

_The Woolworth Building, 1934_

 

It took Merry a few minutes to notice the children. In her defense, they were quiet, which was odd, because children were almost never quiet. There were three of them, all too young for Ilvermorny. The oldest boy was about eight, carefully shepherding his siblings -- a little girl of five and a toddler of indeterminate gender -- through the office. They all had dark hair and eyes, and they looked like they knew exactly where they was going.

That was odd, too.

"Huh," Auror Keily said. "Where's the Mister?"

A second later, a teenage boy burst through the door, obviously frantic. "Damnit, you were supposed to stay _with_ me," he said, swooping down on the kids. He had an infant in his arms, a spectacular black eye and a split lip.

A babysitter, rather than an older sibling, Merry thought. His skin was much darker than the children's.

"Ooh," said the little girl. "You said a bad word."

The teenager -- who was probably sixteen or seventeen -- winced. "You shouldn't have left me," he said. "I was worried! So was Ellie. Weren’t you, Ellie?" he asked, clearly addressing the baby.

The boy gave him a skeptical look. It was strangely familiar, but Merry couldn't place where she'd seen it before. "Elaine's too little to worry about anything," he said.

"Fine," said the teenager. "I was worried enough for both of us."

"We were just going to Dad's office," the boy protested. "It's not that big a deal."

"Uh huh," the teenager said. "We'll just see what your dad has to say about that." He winced again. "Once he gets done with me."

"AUNTIE WIN!" the little girl shrieked, catching sight of Senior Auror Hughes.

"Olwen!" said her older brother. "Inside voice!"

The little girl -- Olwen, apparently -- huffed in disgust at being told what to do, but stopped yelling.

"Oh, no," said the teenager, because Hughes looked him up and down and then went to go bang on the director's office door. Director Graves stuck his head out, scowling.

All three of the children lit up. "Dad!" said the boy.

"Dad," Merry mouthed, giving Keily an incredulous look.

The director sauntered over to the children. "What are you lot doing here?" he inquired. "Where's your papa?"

"Trying to convince Mamá not to kill me," the teenager said.

"Dad, can Auntie Win show me how to braid Olwen's hair while you're yelling at Lance?" the boy asked.

"Why am I yelling at Lance?" Director Graves asked. "Also, why do you want Win to teach you how to braid? What's wrong with the way I braid Olwen's hair?"

Director Graves knew how to braid his daughter's hair. It shouldn't have been a shock, and yet it was.

Olwen looked at her older brother, big eyes pleading.

"You don't do it right," said the boy. "S'not pretty enough. And Papa says you have to yell at Lance."

"It's not _pretty enough,"_ said the director, wounded. "Oh, fine. It's not like she's doing her paperwork anyway. I suppose I'd best do what your papa says." He scooped up the toddler and braced it on one hip while his older children made a beeline for Hughes. He looked Lance up and down. "Lancelot Ernesto Graves-Flores, why the hell aren't you at Ilvermorny right now?"

"Nephew," Kiely said, at Merry's confused look.

"I'm kinda ... suspended?" Lance said.

"My office," the director said, looking angrier than Merry had ever seen him. _"Now."_

"Um," said Merry. "That was weird."

"No," said Keily. "Weird is getting your dueling stance corrected by a seven year old clone of the director."

Merry stared. She wasn't the only one.

"I know," said Keily. "I'd say you get used to it, but you don't."

"My head hurts," Merry said.

 _"That_ you get used to," said Keily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's interested, the Graves Brood at this point consists of:
> 
> Galahad, age 7   
> Olwen, age 4  
> Gawain, age 18 months  
> Elaine (Ellie), age 11 weeks


	4. London, 1935

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Truetomorrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truetomorrow/pseuds/Truetomorrow) who is an absolute sweetheart. We got to talking about how Tina is basically Graves 2.0, the Little Sister Edition. (Dark hair, dark eyes, righteous crusader's heart -- he'd think she was a bastard Graves, except for the part where the Graves family would've happily claimed her, and also the part where Queenie would hex him stupid for daring to think it.)
> 
> Theseus Scamander loves his sister-in-law. He does. And he knows _exactly_ who to blame for Tina's tendency to send MLE into fits. Not to mention the Wizengamot.
> 
> The original version can be found on tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/161083604696/o-hai-comment-fic)

_London, 1935_

 

"You," Theseus said, pointing an accusing finger at Graves. "You complete and utter _bastard,_ you owe me _so much Firewhiskey."_

"Hello to you too, Theseus," Graves said mildly. "Nice to see you again. How have you been?"

Theseus threw his hands up in the air, because he'd always had an overdeveloped sense of melodrama. "How have I been," he repeated. _"How have I been!_ I'll _tell_ you how I've been, you paranoid, suspicious arsehole! I have been up to my bloody eyeballs in pacifying the Wizengamot on behalf of _your_ bloody protege. Fucking _hell,_ Percival, you could have _mentioned_ you had a little sister."

"Technically, I believe Goldstein is _your_ little sister," Graves pointed out, smirking.

"Spare me your cheek," Theseus said sourly. "She's just like you! Much better looking, of course, but the personality's dead on."

Graves gave into the inevitable howl of laughter.

"Oh, stop it," snapped Theseus. "This isn't funny."

"Yes, it is," said Graves. "It _really_ is. I'll just be over here, savoring the irony."

Theseus scowled at him. "You could _try_ being sympathetic," he grumbled.

"I could," Graves allowed. "And then I think back to the war, and all the times you almost got my ass shot off, and I just want to laugh at you, instead. Which is exactly what I'm going to do, by the way."

Theseus flung a Stunning spell at him and followed that up with a solid punch to the ribs when Graves deflected the spell. Graves did not think he could be blamed for tackling Theseus and trying to get him in a headlock while Theseus -- who had _clearly_ spent too much time around Newt's creatures -- twisted and tried to bite him for his troubles.

"Ow!" Graves said. "You fucker! What, are you five? Biting is not okay!"

"Worked, didn't it?" Theseus shot back, unrepentant.

"Don't make me put you in a timeout," Graves snapped, because if Theseus was going to act like one of his kids he'd damn well treat Theseus like one.

"Merlin's beard," said Newt. "Theseus! You promised you'd behave!"

"Hello, Newt," Graves said, taking advantage of Theseus' distraction to wrestle him to the ground and sit on him. He zeroed in on the baby bundled in Newt's arms. "Is that my nephew?" he asked, making grabby hands at the baby.

_"Your_ nephew!" Theseus squawked.

Tina poked her head in just behind Newt. "Percival, why are you sitting on Theseus?"

"He started it," said Graves.

"I did not!" said Theseus.

"Look at it this way," Newt told her. "It's good practice for his teenage years."

"Uncle Jacob is the only uncle you're allowed to take after," Tina told her son. "Do not do _anything_ Uncle Theseus or Uncle Percival do, do you hear me?" She fixed both of them with a stern look when they would have protested. "Do not even," she said.

Graves exchanged a mildly shame-faced look with Theseus. He let Theseus up and tried to look like a responsible adult who could be trusted to hold a baby. "May I?" he asked.

"Of course," said Newt.

Theseus scowled. "I hope he spits up on you."


	5. Ilvermorny, Massachusetts, 1898

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the incredible [gingermaya,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingermaya/pseuds/gingermaya) who wanted to know what made Donaldson a bigot. I remain eternally grateful for the question, because it gave me the excuse to write something that I'd been trying to work in since Chapter 3 of Nothing Shall Be Impossible: the story of how Graves and Seraphina met for the first time.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/161747916801/cross-posting-this-from-the-comments-on-ao3-the) I updated some of the details; I forgot that the Woolworth Building wasn't constructed until after 1912. Oops...

_Ilvermorny, Massachusetts, 1898_

 

Percival scowled at the identical corridors and wished, not for the first time, that Ilvermorny Castle made _sense._ Ilvermorny was nothing like MACUSA HQ in Washington, with its neatly laid out offices and the MACUSA elves, who were cranky but reliable sources of information. Ilvermorny … sprawled. There was no other word for it.

Dindrane had offered to show him around. Percival was starting to regret rejecting her help, but he was _ten,_ not a baby. Ten was too old to be clinging to his big sister’s robes. He could find his own way around.

Eventually.

He went left, mostly because he felt like it. The corridor _still_ didn’t look familiar, but there were voices up ahead. He decided that it was probably okay to ask other students for directions.

The other students turned out to be an older boy about Dindrane’s age and the girl who’d been offered all four Houses – Seraphina Picquery.

“Answer me,” the boy said, grabbing Seraphina’s arm and wrenching it back in an unpracticed hold. He clearly had no idea what he was doing, and he was going to hurt her if he wasn’t careful. 

“I asked you a question,” the boy continued, low and mean. “What makes a mulatto bitch like you special enough for all four Houses?”

Percival wasn’t entirely sure what _mulatto_ meant. He suspected it was something rude. _Bitch_ definitely was.

Seraphina flinched. Her expression went back to the regal calm she’d worn during the Sorting a second later, so Percival knew it had nothing to do with the boy’s grip on her arm. It was the word that hurt.

Percival had not been raised to stand idly by while people hurt each other. No Graves would. It was his duty to protect people.

“Hey!” Percival barked, doing his best impression of Senior Auror Graves. 

The boy let Seraphina’s arm go, clearly unwilling to bully her with a witness.

“I suggest,” Percival said, still channeling his father, “that you apologize to the lady.”

“Or what?” the boy scoffed.

Well. He was pretty much asking for it, now.

Percival punched him, a neat uppercut that broke his nose with a fantastic crunching sound.

Percival felt smug about that for all of two seconds. Then Seraphina punched _him_ in the face for no reason at all.

“Ow,” Percival protested, feeling his nose. It wasn’t bleeding, at least. “What’d you punch _me_ for?” he demanded. “I was trying to help!”

“You boke by dose!” the other boy screeched.

Seraphina looked at him like he was something that she needed to scrape off the bottom of her shoe and shook out her stinging knuckles. “Stop whining, Donaldson,” she commanded, snatching his wand from his belt. _“Episkey.”_

Percival stared. Seraphina had healed Donaldson’s broken nose as neatly as any Healer would have. She wasn’t even supposed to know how to hold a wand yet.

No wonder all four Houses wanted her.

“You’ll get detention for this,” Donaldson threatened.

“So will you,” Percival countered. “Serves you right, for picking on a little girl.”

His parents wouldn’t be pleased if he wound up in detention his very first week of school, but a man had to take responsibility for his actions.

“Are you really going to tell people a _first year_ beat you up?” Seraphina cut in. “The _first week_ of school? You’d be a laughingstock.”

Donaldson hesitated.

“Give me back my wand,” he said.

Percival put a hand out to stop Seraphina when she went to hand it over. “Hex either of us with it and you’re gonna regret it,” he promised, because Donaldson reminded him of the petty criminals his father talked about, and that’s exactly what a petty criminal would have done.

Seraphina rolled her eyes. “Take it and go,” she said.

Donaldson went.

“I could have handled that on my own,” Seraphina said.

“Obviously,” said Percival, because anyone who could cast _episkey_ as well as a real Healer at their age was impressive as hell.

She glared at him suspiciously, like she thought he was making fun of her.

“Who are you, anyway?” she asked, once she decided that he meant it after all.

Percival held out his hand. After a moment, Seraphina reached out to shake it.

Percival bowed and pressed a kiss to the back of it, using his very best Polite Society manners. “Percival Graves, at your service,” he said. He could recognize a lady when he saw one, and Seraphina Picquery was _definitely_ a lady.

“Seraphina Picquery,” said Seraphina. “And I don’t need some silly little boy from Wampus to fight my battles for me.”

Percival beamed at her. “I’d be happy to fight them with you, instead,” he said. “Want me to show you how to throw a proper punch?”

Seraphina beamed back. “I’d like that.”


	6. The Woolworth Building, September 1930

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the delightful [dailandin,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dailandin/pseuds/dailandin) who wanted to see more of Graves' team.
> 
> This should make it _very obvious_ that what I know about how cops interact with one another can be attributed to Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Wacky shenanigans FTW!
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/161826965361/more-comment-fic-this-one-is-from-chapter-9)

_The Pentagram Office, September 1930_

 

"I blame you for this," Graves hissed at Seraphina.

"Oh no," said Seraphina. "This is not my fault, Percival. This is all on you. I had nothing to do with this!"

"'We need more international cooperation, Percival,'" Graves mimicked. "'We need better inter-agency cooperation, Percival. You can't just run roughshod over other organizations, Percival.' I told my team to take your advice and _now_ look what happened!"

"I've been telling you that for the last _twenty years,"_ Seraphina shot back. "You didn't listen to me when I was _president._ You really expect me to believe you’ve started listening to me _now?"_

"Merlin's saggy ballsack," said President Silas Hunter. "I'm having Ilvermorny flashbacks. I have this terrible urge to put you both in detention. Hell, I'm the damned president, I might just do that anyway. Are the two of you _quite_ finished, or would you like to continue bickering like the ten year old pains in my ass you used to be?" He harrumphed irritably. "Thirty magic-be-damned years later and the pair of you haven't changed a bit."

"Sorry, Silas," Seraphina said, doing a credible job of actually sounding sorry. Possibly out of a lingering sense of House pride; Hunter had been the Head Prefect of Horned Serpent, their first year at Ilvermorny.

"Sorry, sir," said Graves, who was rather less convincing.

"Right," said Hunter. "I'm going to pretend that I believe you both, because it will be better for my blood pressure if I do. Now I want you to explain to me – obfuscating as little as possible, or so help me I _will_ make you clean every bathroom in the Woolworth Building – exactly why I have the Deputy Director of Magical Security, three Senior Aurors, the Canadian cursebreaker and the Head of the Federal Bureau of Covert Vigilance and No-Maj Obliviation and four of his agents cooling their heels in the cells."

Graves winced. "When you put it that way, it sounds like the set-up of a bad joke," he said. "Two wizards walk into a bar; that sort of thing."

"That is exactly what happened, Graves," Hunter said flatly. "Ten wizards walked into a bar. Ten wizards also had, I'm told, a spectacular duel/bar fight."

"Er," said Graves. "They did do that, yes."

"Explain. Now."

"Oh, hell," said Graves.

 

_The Woolworth Building, MACUSA Holding Cells, one hour ago_

 

"What the fuck," said Graves. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the inevitable headache. It didn't work.

"Boss, I can explain," said Hughes.

Graves stared at her. She had tentacles dangling from her chin, and looked like something out of that xenophobic No-Maj's stories. He was not entirely certain he could take her seriously right now.

"Do that," he said. He gave the rest of the cell's occupants a disapproving glower. Summersea gave him a level look in return. Collins looked mortified. Goldstein looked like she wanted to punch a few more people in the face, although that might have been because she’d been cursed a horrific shade of chartreuse. Renault, the cursebreaker on loan from the Canadian Ministry, was the only one who managed to look even a little bit apologetic, and he didn't even answer to Graves.

"So, we went out for drinks," said Hughes. "Purely in the name of inter-agency cooperation, like you told us to, since it's not like any of us _wanted_ to spend time with those useless fucksticks from Alphabet Soup."

"The agents from the Federal Bureau of Covert Vigilance and No-Maj Obliviation," Graves said.

"Like I said: Alphabet Soup," said Hughes.

"Damn it, Win, I know you know the right acronym."

"I do," Hughes allowed. "But saying FBCVNMO sounds like a drunk trying to pass the alphabet test, so..." She shrugged. "Alphabet Soup."

"Oh," said Renault, in the tones of someone having a slowly dawning epiphany. "Is that what you meant?"

"Yep," said Hughes. "Keep up, New Guy."

"Oh," Renault said again. "That makes a lot more sense."

Graves cleared his throat. "You went out for a drink," he said.

"In the name of inter-agency cooperation and international diplomacy," Hughes said virtuously.

Since Hughes only tried to look or sound virtuous after she had caused an interdepartmental incident, Graves found the expression more than a little terrifying.

"It wasn't so bad, at first," Summersea said. He'd gotten a lot better at indifferent calm since Graves had made him Deputy Director of Magical Security. Summersea looked bored enough that he might have been remarking on the weather, and not sitting in a MACUSA holding cell at all. "Deputy Director Henshaw seems quite reasonable."

"Uh huh," Graves said dryly. "So reasonable you broke his jaw."

Summersea shrugged. "Seeming isn't the same as being, Director."

"Right," said Graves. "What changed, if it wasn't so bad at first?"

His team and Renault exchanged a series of looks.

"They crossed a couple of lines," said Collins. He'd mostly stopped looking mortified and looked a whole lot like he might join Goldstein in punching people in the face, should the opportunity arise.

Graves expected a certain amount of face-punching out of Win and Tina. Win had six brothers; punching people in the face was practically her version of saying hello. And Tina was enough like him that she nearly always wanted to punch someone in the face. John was much harder to rile up, and Alex even more so. He didn't know Sebastien Renault very well, but cursebreakers didn't tend to live very long if they couldn't keep their cool under fire. Renault hadn't struck him as the impetuous type.

Fucking wonderful. Three weeks in and his team had already managed to corrupt the guy. The Head of Canadian MLE was going to want Graves' lungs on a platter for this, and might actually try to carve them out herself if she was feeling particularly peckish. One of Victoire Bonifay's many times great-grandmother's had been a veela, and it showed.

"Which lines, exactly," said Graves.

"The important ones," Renault said seriously. At Graves' startled look, he said, "What? That's how it was explained to me, when I came to work with you. There are a few important rules here in MACUSA," he said, playing up his accent until he sounded more French than French-Canadian. "There are lines you do not cross."

Yes, Graves thought. Victoire is _definitely_ going to try to claw my lungs out for this.

"Are you playing the silly foreigner card?" Hughes asked. "Seriously?"

"Is it working?" Renault asked.

"No," said Graves.

Renault drooped a little. Then he shrugged. "When in Rome, sir."

"Victoire is going to want my lungs on a platter," Graves said.

"Not your balls?" Renault asked. "She must like you."

"She likes my husband," Graves told him. "Her exact words were, 'I will leave you your balls, since darling Credence seems to have a use for them, but I will have your lungs on a silver platter if you let anything happen to Sebastien.'"

Renault nodded, like this made perfect sense. "Technically," he said, in the tones of someone trying to be helpful, "nothing happened to me."

"I don't think Victoire is going to see things that way," Graves said. "Which lines did FBCVNMO cross, Sebastien?"

Renault looked vaguely cornered.

"Shouldn't have engaged with him," Hughes said. "Rookie mistake."

Renault gave her an affronted look. "I'm the new guy!"

"Chiaverelli upset Credence," Collins said.

Graves froze. "No one said Credence was there," he said slowly, feeling the urge to strangle someone rising. Maybe a lot of someones, starting with the idiots from FBCNVMO in the cell down the hall. He could strangle his team next, if that wasn't therapeutic enough.

"Well, no," Goldstein said. "They wouldn't. Queenie took him home. That much excitement isn't good for the baby."

"No fucking shit," said Graves. He was torn between Apparating home to check on Credence and doing his fucking job and finding out exactly where the wheels had come off the wagon tonight. Doing his fucking job won. 

Barely.

"How, exactly," he said, biting the words out like they were hexes, "did Chiaverelli upset my very pregnant husband?"

"He said something rude about Queenie," Goldstein said, throwing the words out like a challenge. "Specifically, her No-Maj husband."

"Ah," said Graves. Yeah, that would do it. He was honestly surprised that _Credence_ hadn't punched anyone in the face, but he supposed being seven months pregnant would slow anyone down. Credence had a zero-tolerance policy for disrespectful remarks where Queenie Kowalski was concerned. Jacob, too, for that matter.

The Auror division – and most of MACUSA, honestly – had exactly one rule where upsetting Credence was concerned, and that rule was: don't. No wonder tonight had devolved into such a shit show.

"Chiaverelli insulted Jacob," Graves said. "Which upset Credence. Who I don't imagine took that sort of thing quietly."

"Nope," said Hughes. "He's got quite the mouth on him, boss."

"Like you didn't teach him the swear words," said Graves.

She looked delighted beneath the tentacles. "He's learned so well," she said, wiping an imaginary tear of pride away.

"Deputy Director Henshaw pointed out that there was no need for that kind of language," Summersea put in. "And then he suggested that Credence's condition was making him irrational. He may have also pointed out that hormonal irrationality was why whelping was best left to witches, who are more suited to such things."

"Is that when you broke his jaw?" Graves asked.

Summersea gave him a repressive look. "No," he said.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Graves. "Alright, what next?"

"Well, after that, it was pretty obvious that Credence was going to have some kind of rage induced aneurysm if he stayed, so Queenie took him home," said Collins. "We ... attempted to salvage the evening in the name of inter-agency cooperation."

"John told them off for fucking up," Hughes put in, shameless.

"Damn it, Win!" said Summersea. "That's not what happened!"

"It's kind of what happened," said Goldstein.

Renault held his thumb and index finger an inch apart. "Little bit."

Summersea glared at all of them. "Carrytales," he said, sounding betrayed. "Deputy Director Henshaw objected to the fact that I was remonstrating with him – in front of his agents, no less – and then he got a lot less reasonable after that."

"So John broke his jaw," said Hughes, sounding cheerful about it. "Which was hot as hell, by the way."

"I didn't need to know that," said Summersea.

"I didn't _want_ to know that," said Collins.

"I could stand to hear a bit more," said Renault.

"I knew I liked you for a reason, New Guy," said Hughes.

"They threw a few curses, we retaliated and then we all wound up here," said Goldstein. "We really were trying to build inter-agency cooperation," she added. "Except the other agency turned out to be a bunch of jackasses, so..." She shrugged.

"Alright," said Graves. "I'm going to deal with this. Renault, see if you can get Hughes looking a little less like calamari. Any other injuries or spell damage I should know about?"

"Please," said Goldstein, sounding genuinely offended. "We're _Aurors._ They’re glorified obliviators."

"That’s my girl," said Graves.

 

_The Pentagram Office_

Graves folded his arms across his chest and set his jaw. He wasn't about to rat his team out for acting like decent wizards should – particularly not since they'd been acting in Credence's defense.

"Merlin," said President Hunter. "I'm having another Ilvermorny flashback. Do you know, that's the exact same look you used to get when you were ten years old and decided to fall on your sword?"

"I have not decided to fall on my sword," Graves protested.

"No, he's right," said Seraphina. "That's your 'fall on your sword' face." She shared a commiserating look with Hunter.

"Ugh, Horned Serpents," Graves muttered.

"Wampuses!" Hunter said with feeling. "It's a lot less cute now that you're not ten anymore," he said.

"Mr. President," Graves said. "I take full responsibility for tonight's disaster."

"Good," said Hunter.

"Good," Graves repeated, faintly unnerved.

"Good," Hunter repeated. "Since you've as good as admitted that it's your fault, it falls on you to fix it. Tonight's mess started as an exercise in inter-agency cooperation, did it not?" He smiled at Graves, serpent-like. "I suggest you spend some time learning how to play nicely with the other children, Graves. You will cooperate, or I will fire you. You're too old to play the maverick, and MACUSA needs unity, not division."

Graves stared at him. Then he looked at Seraphina. "Seraphina," he said. "Did you _set me up?"_ She’d been the one to suggest having his team set an example for the rest of Magical Security and go out for a quiet drink with another agency. She’d been the one to suggest FBCVNMO too, for that matter.

“You should have listened to me twenty years ago,” Seraphina said, merciless. “I let you get away with things. Silas won’t.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Graves said.

President Hunter gave them both an unamused look. “If you’re going to scrap with one another like annoying precocious children, do it outside my office, please.”

Seraphina frowned at him. “You make dealing with us at Ilvermorny sound rather traumatizing.”

The president stared at her for a long moment. Then he started laughing, and did not stop for an alarmingly long period of time.

“You have no idea,” he said, wiping tears away from the corners of his eyes. “I’m just glad one of you is finally having children, and you can experience what minding the pair of you is like first hand.”

“It can’t be that bad,” said Graves.

“In eight years,” said Hunter, “I am going to firecall and ask if you remember this conversation, and I am going to laugh and laugh when you’re forced to eat crow.”


	7. The Safe House, December, 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the magnificent [almost-annette,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette/pseuds/almostannette) who liked Jacob teaching Credence how to cook. As talking about food is one of my favorite things to do, comment fic obviously needed to happen, and I wrote about Jacob and Queenie and Tina teaching Credence how to make latkes.
> 
> It should be noted that I am not Jewish, and no disrespect is intended. My best friend growing up was, though, and I rather liked the thought of Jacob and the Goldsteins sharing their culture with Credence as generously as it was shared with me.
> 
> That said, if I have gotten any of the details wrong, please don’t hesitate to let me know and I will do my best to correct them.

_The Safe House, December, 1927_

 

"We make latkes," Jacob said, "to celebrate the Festival of Lights. Foods fried in olive oil commemorate the miracle of the oil that burned in the Temple of Jerusalem for eight days, when there was only enough oil to last for one."

"We make them by hand," Queenie said, picking up the thread of the story, "out of dedication. Making them with magic cheapens the miracle." She smiled, bright and sweet, bright as the candlelight from the menorah.

"The way my grandma tells it, the Holy Land was ruled by men who tried to force the people of Israel to accept their religion: their gods and their ways. A small band of Jews, led by Judah the Maccabee, defeated those men, who were from one of the strongest and most powerful armies in the world, and reclaimed the Holy Temple. They rededicated it to God, but when they went to light the Temple's Menorah, they found only enough oil that the invaders had not contaminated to last a single day."

"I didn't know wizards had a god," Credence said.

"Not all of us do," said Tina. "We're not just witches, Queenie and me. We're Jews, and we still follow the ways of our people. Having magic doesn't change that."

Ma hadn't thought very highly of Jews. Neither had the Irish immigrants, or anyone else Credence had known in his old life. He had a vague notion that it was because their approach to God – to religion in general – was different from what Ma believed, but he hadn't thought much of it since what Ma believed was different from what pretty much everyone believed. (Plenty of other religions had witches, but very few of them still thought that they walked among ordinary folk, or that they could be any kind of a threat. It was strange, knowing just how much Ma had been wrong about, to think that she had actually been right about that.)

"It's partly a religious thing," Queenie acknowledged. "And partly cultural. They're intertwined, for us."

Credence nodded. That made sense.

"Back to the latkes," Jacob said. "See, the thing about the olive oil was that it had to be pure: uncontaminated. There was only enough for one day, but it burned for eight, which was enough time for more oil to be prepared under ritually pure conditions. It was a miracle, so the sages instituted the Festival of Lights to commemorate it."

Credence suspected that there were elements to this story that he was too foreign – either as a wizard or a non-Jewish person – to understand. It seemed like a small miracle to him, but he thought maybe he just didn't have the right context for why it was important. He'd ask, when there wasn't cooking to be done.

Queenie leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

_"Queenie,"_ Credence said, trying not to whine. He rubbed at the lipstick mark she'd left on his forehead.

Jacob snickered.

"The potatoes should be grated by hand," Tina said. "Mom always said making them with magic was cheating." She grabbed a potato and demonstrated, rubbing the potato against the grater so that chunks of it fell away in short, even strips. She didn't bother to skin it first, and Credence accepted the grater and a potato from her when she offered them. She put her grated bits of potato in a bowl of cold water.

"That's to keep them from going brown," Jacob said, at Credence's puzzled look. "You want to grate, hm, maybe a pound of potatoes for every half an onion or so? My grandma, God rest her soul, she never used to keep track all that closely. There were always a bunch of us grandkids running around, though, and it was all gonna get eaten anyways, so it's not like it mattered."

"That's how Mom used to make them," Queenie agreed.

Credence finished grating his potato. His fingers itched for the blank book he was slowly filling up with recipes. His grimoire, Percival called it, with a cheeky smile to let Credence know that he was teasing. He could write this down later, though. A pound of potatoes per half onion was not a terribly complicated measurement.

He passed the grater on to Queenie, who plucked out a potato of her own and grated it in quick, deft movements.

"Next up is the onion," Jacob said. "Usually, you chill it before you grate it. Makes things easier. You can slice it, if you want, but you want to make sure the pieces are about as fine as your potatoes are." He set the onion aside as he grated a potato of his own, and then one more for good measure. "That'll do, to start," he decided. "Next, you gotta get the water out." He put cheesecloth on top of the potatoes in their cold water bath, and dumped it out upside out over the sink to drain. "Some people do this with a sieve," he confided. "But my grandma always used cheesecloth. It really gets the water out." He twisted the cheesecloth into a ball and wound it tight, wringing more water out of it. 

"A sieve works just fine," Tina said, demonstrating with the onions. She flattened them a little with a spoon, pushing the water out instead of squeezing.

Jacob dumped the grated potato back in the empty bowl, and Tina pushed the bits of onion on top of them. She tossed them together with her hands, while Queenie beat an egg with a little bit of salt and pepper. She poured that over the onion and potato mixture while Tina was still combining them, and Tina mixed those in too.

"You just need a little egg, to hold everything together," Queenie explained.

"Some people use flour," Jacob said.

Tina made a disapproving noise. "That's cheating."

"You calling my grandma a cheater?" Jacob asked, tossing a little bit of flour in.

"Not directly," Tina said darkly. She looked a little like she wanted to remove the bits of potato that had been contaminated with flour from the bowl, but Jacob had sprinkled it over a lot of the mixture and Tina's hands, so there was no way she could do it without magic.

Jacob grinned at her. "Every family's recipe is a bit different," he told Credence.

"You want to heat the oil till it shimmers," said Queenie.

"Not smokes," Jacob cautioned.

"Definitely not smokes," Queenie confirmed. "You can test it, see? With just a bit of potato. If it sizzles, you're good to go. If it doesn't, you're going to get heavy, greasy latkes, and no one wants that."

"Not unless you're my Aunt Ruthie," Jacob muttered. Credence suspected, from Jacob's dire tone, that this was not a point in Jacob's Aunt Ruthie's favor.

Tina demonstrated how to check if the oil was ready, showing Credence what it looked like when the oil was too cold, and again when it was just right.

"You want to work with maybe a quarter of a cup of potatoes at a time," said Jacob. He spooned the potato-and-onion mixture into the skillet with quick, easy movements. "You flatten 'em a little, and then you let them cook till the bottoms go brown. Takes a few minutes. Then you flip 'em over, and cook the other side." When the latkes were finished, he flipped them onto a wire rack to drain and cool just a little.

"And then you serve them up. Most folks like them with applesauce, or sour cream, but you can try anything, really," Queenie said, passing Credence a plate.

Credence sliced off a tiny piece of his latke and ate it carefully, letting the freshly fried flavors burst over his tongue. It tasted like potato and onion and just a hint of pepper, fried until it was delicious and crispy and good. The applesauce was a delightful contrast, sweet and cold where the latkes were crispy and hot.

"It's really good," Credence said. The words felt inadequate – everything Jacob made was good – but they also needed to be said. His latke consumed, he grabbed his cooking grimoire and opened it to a fresh page. "Can you tell me a little bit more about why the Festival of Lights is important?"


	8. New York, January 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the exceptional [ToraMeri,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToraMeri/pseuds/ToraMeri) who caught one of my terrible nerdy Easter eggs and was lovely enough to let me write a missing/deleted scene that didn't quite fit where the story was going. 
> 
> I figured if I was doing a deleted scene, I might as well add a different POV to the mix.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/164512820141/i-keep-meaning-to-get-caught-up-on-comment-fic)

_New York, January 1927, the same evening as the Special Tribunal_

 

Dorothy gave the bread dough an encouraging pat and set it aside to rise. She liked baking bread without magic; Alex swore he could taste the love she put into it in every bite, which was silly, but reason enough to keep baking the No-Maj way as far as she was concerned.

The wards chimed gently, alerting her to her visitor a full thirty seconds before there was a knock on the front door of their apartment.

Dorothy hesitated. That was an Auror's trick, she knew. It was considered polite to announce your presence just outside an Auror's home: to brush your magic against their wards and let them know you were there.

Why would an Auror be calling on her in the middle of the day?

Had something happened to Alex?

Dorothy opened the front door with trembling fingers, bracing herself to find a grim-faced Family Liaison on the other side.

She was not expecting Director Graves.

Dorothy burst into tears.

"Oh," said Director Graves, sounding a bit flustered. "Oh, no. Please don't cry, Mrs. Collins." He offered her a plain white handkerchief.

"I'm so sorry," Dorothy blubbered, accepting the handkerchief. "I don't know what's come over me. Please come in." Her mother had said that being with child took witches this way sometimes, but being this much of a watering pot was _mortifying._ "I'm so glad you're back," she said, taking a deep breath to calm herself.

His handkerchief wasn't embroidered. Dorothy frowned at it. Director Graves' handkerchiefs had all been monogrammed with his initials. She knew that because Alex had come home with one wrapped around his arm one evening. He'd had some minor cut he hadn't considered worth bothering the healers over, and Director Graves had given it to him to "keep him from leaking all of the crime scene." She'd gotten the blood out and ironed it and sent it back via Alex, along with a batch of her best chocolate chip cookies.

She wondered if this was the real Director Graves, or if Grindelwald had somehow escaped.

She dismissed that thought a second later. Grindelwald was a madman, but surely he had better things to do than accost the wives of random Aurors.

Not to mention that _this_ Director Graves looked unwell. His fine suit had been well tailored, and the bold red of his shirt made it look like he had some color in his face. None of it hid the starved hollows of his cheeks, or the way his eyes were constantly moving, tracking the exits.

"It's good to be back," Director Graves said, politely ignoring the last of her sniffles. "I'm sorry to drop in on you unannounced." He held out a slab of baker's chocolate. "For the house," he murmured, as if she were some high society matron he needed to pay tribute to with a hearthgift.

Dorothy couldn't quite wrap her head around what was happening right now. Hearthgifts were an old tradition; hardly anyone remembered them these days. It was a way of acknowledging the one who kept the hearth and made it a home.

Dorothy realized that she was staring and dropped her gaze, reaching out to accept the chocolate. Accepting it was only polite, unless she meant to deny him entry into her home. And doing that would have been rude, because she'd already invited him in.

The chocolate had been stamped with the Speedwell logo. It wasn't just for baking – it was medicinal. Speedwell chocolate was a key ingredient in a lot of restorative charms. This much of it had to have cost the Director dearly.

"Thank you," she said, sounding a little faint to her own ears. She must have sounded ridiculous to his. "Can I get you anything? A drink, perhaps? Or a cookie? I just finished up some baking."

"No, thank you," said Director Graves politely. He looked horribly betrayed when his stomach rumbled a minute later. "On second thought, something to nibble on would be lovely."

"Of course," said Dorothy. "Have a seat in the living room. I'll be right out."

Director Graves hesitated.

Had she misstepped somehow?

"Unless you'd rather eat in the kitchen?"

"I'd like that, if it's alright with you."

"It's fine," Dorothy assured him. She was more comfortable in her kitchen, anyway.

... That was an Auror's trick too, wasn't it? People were more inclined to be careless in their own territory, where they felt relaxed and safe.

Sometimes being an Auror's spouse was more trouble than it was worth. Learning the way they thought made you suspicious of _everyone,_ which was ridiculous, as far as Dorothy was concerned. Not everyone was a criminal.

Dorothy fetched Director Graves a sandwich. It was nothing fancy, just slices of last night's chicken with tomato and caramelized onion and cheese. She toasted it with a flick of her wand and served it up with a couple of the biggest, chewiest chocolate chip cookies. She normally saved her best baking for Alex, but the Director's half-starved gauntness made her itch to feed him up. She didn't think Alex would begrudge Director Graves the cookies.

Director Graves wolfed the sandwich down with gratifying speed. "Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur's knights," he said. "That was _delicious."_

What had Grindelwald done to him, that a simple sandwich was met with so much pleasure? The man Dorothy remembered was quieter, more restrained: less openly appreciative.

He looked somewhat embarrassed that the words had escaped a second later. Dorothy suspected that the man she remembered was still in there. She didn't want to embarrass him further, so she politely ignored his slip-up.

"I suppose you must be wondering why I'm here," he said.

"A little," she confessed. "It's not Alex, is it?" She couldn't bear it if something had happened to Alex. Not now that they were starting a family. And especially not after the last few days. Alex – _her_ Alex – had spent months in Grindelwald's company. Grindelwald could have killed him anytime he wanted, and the near miss of it made her dizzy with belated terror. It wasn't rational – she _knew_ it wasn't rational – but it still kept her from sleeping at night. Grindelwald could have lured Alex somewhere remote, and Alex would have gone with him because he thought Grindelwald was Director Graves. Grindelwald could have killed him, and no one would have ever known.

Tears prickled at her eyelids again. She wasn't going to start crying again. She wasn't. Director Graves was back, Grindelwald was behind bars, and if she knew Director Graves he'd make sure Grindelwald _stayed_ there and couldn't hurt anyone ever again, least of all Alex.

"No," Director Graves said, reaching out to clasp her hand in his own. "It's not Alex."

His grip was as strong as ever. Dorothy anchored herself in that and managed to avoid bursting into tears once more.

"That's good," she said, relieved. "What is it, then?"

He hesitated. For a second, Dorothy thought he looked vulnerable, which was plainly ridiculous. Director Graves was one of the most powerful wizards in America. He and President Picquery had been re-setting the standards of modern wizardry since they were children together at Ilvermorny.

"I wonder," Director Graves said carefully, "if I might ask a favor of you."

Dorothy stared at him, certain that she'd heard him wrong. What favor could _she_ possibly do for _him?_

"You needn't feel obligated to say yes," he added. "Only that you'll consider it."

"I suppose that depends on the favor," Dorothy replied, just as carefully. She wasn't Alex. She wouldn't blindly follow Director Graves into hell just because he was Director Graves. But she'd do anything in her power within reason to help him. She liked him; he was a good boss, and every Auror's spouse she knew gave thanks that he was the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, because there were fewer Auror deaths under his tenure than there had been under anyone else since MACUSA was founded. He was careful with his people, Director Graves. Their lives weren't coins to be spent lightly.

"Have you heard any of the rumors?" Director Graves asked. "About when I was found?"

Dorothy hesitated, because she had. The _New York Ghost_ had been vicious about Director Graves' potential collaboration. Alex had worried himself sick over what the Special Tribunal might do to the Director.

She realized, belatedly, that if he was sitting in her kitchen the Special Tribunal must have ruled in his favor.

"I don't believe you're a collaborator," she told him. "I never did. Neither does Alex."

"Ah," said the Director. He sighed. "Collins, your discretion amazes me."

Dorothy frowned. That did not sound like a slight, but it didn't sound like a compliment, either.

"I take it Collins didn't mention there was someone else with me, the night I was found?"

"No," said Dorothy. "He tries not to talk about work at home. He thinks it will upset me." Sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn't, but that wasn't for _him_ to decide, the foolish man.

"Ah," Director Graves said again. "That makes this a bit harder to explain." He took a deep breath. "There was someone else with me in Grindelwald's prison. Another wizard. He fell through the cracks, and he grew up unaware of our world, or his heritage. Grindelwald found him." Director Graves hesitated. "I love him," he said plainly. "He's carrying my child, and I intend to marry him. But I know how difficult it is, to be an Auror's spouse, and I ... I had hoped, that you might take him under your wing, the way Angelica Summersea did for you. I'd consider it a personal favor."

A personal favor from a scion of the Twelve was as good as dragots in the bank. Dorothy couldn’t imagine ever needing to cash such a favor in.

She wondered what it had cost him to come here and ask this of her. The man she remembered was a proud one, unwilling to let anyone else share his burdens. It was a point of frustration for his team, Alex included. He had their back, no matter what, but they were rarely permitted the chance to guard his.

Director Graves had spent the last twenty years of his life making sure that everyone around him knew that the Graves family still intended to shield their people from harm by whatever means necessary. He was possessive over the people he considered his, but in the way that dragons and kings were possessive: as the possessor, not the possessed.

Love changed things, though. Love made you possessor and possessed by default. Dorothy was Alex’s and he was hers; they were partners and equals. That was the way love _worked._

“Why me?” she asked, bewildered. “Why not Angelica?” She knew Director Graves had met Angelica Summersea, who had phenomenal grace and poise. More than that, Angelica wasn’t intimidated by anyone or anything, which surely made her a better example of what it took to be Director Graves’ spouse than Dorothy would be. Dorothy was ordinary in every sense of the word, little better than a hearth witch.

Dorothy thought she saw him relax just a little, but she might have been imagining that.

“Credence is closer to your age than Angelica’s,” the director told her. “He knows very little about our world, not even the basic charms every child grows up knowing. He’d make himself miserable, trying to match Angelica’s poise and political savvy, because he’d think that being like her was the best way for him to be useful to me.

“I don’t want him to be _useful,_ Mrs. Collins. I want him to be _happy._ I think you could teach him the basics in a way that wouldn’t make him feel miserable or ashamed. More than that, though, I think that the two of you would get along. He wants to learn to cook. Credence…” There was no mistaking the way Director Graves’ voice softened when he said his fiancé’s name. He really loved this Credence, whoever he was. Director Graves cleared his throat. “Credence has the kindest, most generous heart of anyone I’ve ever met. Anyone else who has been through the things he’d survived would be totally justified if it had made him cruel, or mean, but Credence is _kind.”_ He smiled, a little shyly, and Dorothy had a sudden idea of what he must have looked like two decades ago: boyish and sweet. “Truth be told, you remind me a little of him.”

“Oh,” said Dorothy. There was, she knew, no higher praise than being favorably compared to the one person someone else loved with every fiber of their being.

“Yes,” she said. “Of course. I’d be delighted to meet him.”

He _definitely_ relaxed after that. _“Thank you,”_ he said. He reached out and took her hand, raising it to his lips. “I owe you a debt, Mrs. Collins. Please, feel free to call on us tomorrow. We’re in a safe house,” he added, as if this was a perfectly ordinary statement. Maybe for him, it was. And then he said, “The safe house is at 111 Park.”

Dorothy stared at him. She was fairly certain that MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security had just told her where a safe house had been hidden under a Fidelius Charm. Her! Dorothy Collins! Who wasn’t an Auror or even part of MACUSA or anything.

“Oh my word,” she said faintly.

He smiled, a little impish. “I’ll see myself out,” he said. He walked out the front door before she could insist that he take some food home with him.

“Oh my,” Dorothy said to her empty kitchen. “Dorothy Collins, you’re coming up in the world.” Director Graves wanted _her_ to mentor his future husband.

His future husband, who was carrying his child.

Director Graves was Alex’s boss and also his teammate. If anyone else on Alex’s team had been expecting a child, Dorothy would have made their baby something special, rather than gift them with one of the blankets she knitted when the mood took her. Someone at MACUSA or in their apartment building was always having a baby, so it paid to have a few gifts on hand.

She went into her sewing room and pulled out an intricately cabled blanket made out of cream colored yarn. It was, she admitted, one she’d planned on giving her own baby, but she had time to make a new one. This one was special. There were runes for protection and love and safety worked into the cables.

She’d give it to Credence tomorrow. She hoped he liked it. She hoped he liked _her._

The Aurors spouses were comrades in arms, in much the same way their Aurors were. But she hoped that they could be friends, too. It would be nice to have someone her age who understood what she was going through.

Maybe chocolate chip cookies would help. No one could resist her cookies. Dorothy wandered back into the kitchen, mind full of plans for tomorrow.


	9. Ilvermorny Massachusetts, November 1947

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's a little late. I spent waaaaaay too much time at work the last couple of days.
> 
> Written for the hilarious [onsenorita.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onsenorita/pseuds/onsenorita) Inspired by the comment: _But every time the possibility of future kids comes up, I have this hilaaarious mental image of wizarding New York gazing on in amazement and terror as Credence keeps matter of factly adding a new baby every couple of years. Like Merlin’s blessed balls, there is a difference between continuing the bloodline and FOUNDING A FUCKING DYNASTY. Someone nicknames Credence “Ilvermorny’s Bane.” More than one professor takes early retirement in despair at the never-ending parade of headstrong, magically precocious Graves’. God help Red and all of MACUSA - this is not a cornerstone anymore, it’s a bloody INFESTATION._
> 
> I thought that was _hysterical_ and then I ran with it. So: Ilvermorny vs. the Graves Brood. (The Graves Brood is totally winning.)
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/164621329641/more-comment-fic-this-is-from-chapter-13-for)

_Ilvermorny Massachusetts, November 1947_

 

Evan Jauncey stared at Elaine Graves in flat despair. She was, he’d always thought, the _sensible_ one. A proper Horned Serpent, just like he was -- more like her aunties than her parents or siblings.

He’d thought -- oh, it had been stupid, what he’d thought -- that Elaine was the lone voice of common sense amongst the chaos her siblings generated.

He’d forgotten that Seraphina Picquery had matched every reckless, too-powerful stunt Percival Graves had ever pulled at Ilvermorny neck and neck, and that Dindrane Graves-Flores was every bit as powerful as her brother, if infinitely better at hiding it.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Elaine said. To her credit, she actually seemed to _mean_ it, which put her one up on her older brothers and sister.

As Jauncey was still out a Defense Professor and a dueling instructor, Elaine’s apologies did not count for as much as she might have hoped.

“Miss Graves,” Jauncey said, in his best _I am the headmaster and you will listen to me_ tones, “are you sorry for dueling Professor Kipling to a standstill, or are you simply sorry I’ve called you into my office?”

Elaine considered that. “More the latter than the former,” she said, with the honesty of children. “But if Professor Kipling couldn’t handle _me,_ he definitely can’t handle a true Dark Wizard, and he shouldn’t have been teaching anyway.”

“I believe you may have a few advantages where dueling is concerned, Miss Graves,” Jauncey pointed out.

Elaine fidgeted. “I guess I do,” she conceded.

The entire Graves line had a knack for dueling. Jauncey had gone from being impressed when Galahad did it -- wordless and wandless, just like his father -- to alarmed, because no first year student should be _that_ fast with her wandwork and Olwen’s knack for dueling went beyond talent into something supernatural. Not unreasonable, given her role models, but still alarming. Jauncey was mostly just grateful she modeled her behavior on Tina Goldstein rather than Winifred Hughes. By the time Gawain was old enough to join the dueling club, Jauncey had resigned himself to yet more angry letters from parents wondering just what, exactly, was being taught by Ilvermorny’s dueling club, as he was 100% positive that they were learning it from Galahad (and Olwen, and Gawain) rather than the previous dueling master, who quit roughly six months into Gawain’s second year.

Jauncey thought wistfully of Gawain, who idolized his curse-breaker cousin Lancelot and had so far only forced one professor into early retirement to Galahad and Olwen’s collective three.

Two of those retirements, Jauncey knew, were the direct result of the Thunderbird Incident. He still hadn’t gotten the complete story out of anyone involved, and likely never would, but Galahad and Olwen had thrown down with the entirety of Thunderbird’s fifth year class defending Sammy Collins’ honor. Jauncey hadn’t been sorry to lose Saunders, whom he’d inherited from his predecessor and was the sort of asshole who thought that teenage boys who pressed their suits on uninterested or unwilling teenage girls was just _boys being boys_ rather than cause for concern. There had been a sharp drop off in that sort of behavior after that, mostly because if Galahad caught wind of anyone trying it, he’d beat the shit out of them. (If it was a girl, he left them to Olwen’s tender mercies. Galahad didn’t like hitting girls.)

The fact that two of his _students_ had taken it upon themselves to police that sort of behavior had been humbling. Jauncey had put measures into place to make sure that everyone -- from the students to the staff -- knew that harassment of any kind was unacceptable. (He was fairly certain that Olwen and Gawain still beat the shit out of anyone who thought that _no_ meant anything other than _no._ He was less certain about whether or not Elaine also participated.)

“Auntie Win could take the dueling master’s position,” Elaine ventured, clearly trying to be helpful. “Dad says you should learn from the best, and there’s no one better than Auntie Win, except maybe Uncle Theseus.”

Jauncey imagined Winifred Hughes and a room full of small, impressionable children. Unimaginable horror did not even _begin_ to describe how he felt about that.

“Auror Hughes has a job,” he told Elaine.

“Oh,” said Elaine. “Right.” She drooped. “How much trouble am I in, sir?”

“You have Saturday detention for the next two months,” Jauncey told her. Elaine bit back whatever protest she was going to make and nodded. “You will also complete an essay on the ethics of your actions.”

“My actions weren’t unethical!” Elaine protested.

“You humiliated a full-grown wizard in front of your peers. If that was not unethical, then it was certainly unkind.”

Elaine flinched. “I didn’t mean to be.”

“I know,” Jauncey told her kindly. “Which is why you’ll also be writing a letter of apology to Professor Kipling.”

“Yes, sir,” Elaine said. “Sorry, sir.” Her eyes darted to the door.

“You’re dismissed,” he said.

Jauncey waited until he was certain she was gone before he put his face down on his desk and groaned. Galahad had graduated three years ago, but he still had Olwen and Gawain and Elaine and the twins to deal with. So far, Lucan and Gareth had behaved like perfectly normal first years, but they were Graves’, so it was only a matter of time, really. And there were two more little ones after the twins.

Jauncey was starting to see the appeal of early retirement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's interested, the Graves Brood at this point consists of:
> 
> **Ilvermorny Graduate:**  
>  Galahad, age 20
> 
> **At Ilvermorny:**  
>  Olwen, age 17, Wampus  
> Gawain, age 15, Thunderbird  
> Elaine, age 13, Horned Serpent
> 
> **Too young for Ilvermorny:**  
>  Lucan and Gareth, age 10  
> Lyonesse, age 8  
> Dagonet, age 5


	10. New York, August 1924

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the wonderful [becameapasttime.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitslits/pseuds/becameapasttime) Inspired by the comment _Bro, the conversation between Tina and Graves when she asked him how Grindelwald had gotten to him had me in my feelings, and I don’t even know why. It was probably the fact that Graves was trying to protect her even from such a small thing. Damn._ Because yeah. That's who Graves is.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/166527961871/comment-fic-from-chapter-5-since-i-missed-the)
> 
> As far as the timeline goes, my headcanon is that Tina was still pretty new at being an Auror when she was demoted to the wand permit office. It explains some of her need to prove herself.

_New York, August 1924_

Tina stared down at the Auror Bingo card in her hands. "Is this a joke?" she asked. "Because I'm pretty sure that they gave us a pamphlet on hazing during orientation, so if this is a joke it's in terribly poor taste." She was reasonably sure there'd been a pamphlet. In her defense, orientation had taken what felt like the entire sum of recorded history (eight excruciatingly long hours she was never, ever getting back) and she'd read through the pamphlets in a desperate bid to stay awake.

It hadn't worked.

Warner, the Supervising Officer who'd been assigned to Tina's cohort of junior Aurors, just rolled his eyes. "It's not hazing, rookie, it's a _joke._ You do know how to take those, right?"

Tina squared her shoulders. "If they're funny."

"Being an Auror's not funny," Warner said, tapping the square on Tina's card that read _get hit with the Cruciatus Curse._ "We tend towards gallows humor around here. But Auror Bingo's an old MACUSA tradition. Everyone's played -- even the Director and President Picquery have. It's just, y'know. Stupid bonding shit."

"Oh," said Tina. She looked down at her card again. _Fall slightly in love with President Picquery or Director Graves_ was still sitting, smug, in the center square. "Well _that's_ not going to happen." They were both far too old for her, for one thing, and too far above her professionally besides.

"Oh, rookie," Warner said, sounding almost sympathetic. "There's a reason that's the center square."

 

*

 

Six months later, Tina watched President Picquery charm, cajole and generally out-maneuver everyone who disagreed with her into eating out of the palm of her hand. She was wearing a dress that had been handmade by Ariadne herself and looked as though she were some sort of mythological goddess come to life.

"Goddamnit," she said, and made Warner cross off the center square. "Say anything, and I will hex you," she warned him.

He didn't say anything, but he patted her shoulder in an extremely patronizing fashion. Tina hexed him anyway.

 

*

 

Three months after _that,_ Tina's rookie cohort got ambushed by a potions smuggling ring. Her head ached from where they'd struck her, and she had no idea where her wand was. She looked over at Cho, who was the most observant one in their cohort. Cho shook his head. He had no idea what was going on, either.

We should be dead, she thought. Warner probably was. He'd taken a curse right between the shoulderblades.

There was no reason that thought should make her want to cry. She hadn't even _liked_ Warner, not really. Warner was a condescending dick on his good days and insufferable on the bad ones. But he'd been her SO - a brother-in-arms.

Her mouth felt awful and dry. It took her three tries to get enough spit in her mouth to ask, "Ransom?"

Cho shrugged. "Maybe."

"Could be they want us for ingredients," said McNulty, who was morbid and a bit of a worse-case-scenarioist. "Being potions smugglers and all."

"Thanks for that," Tina said sarcastically. If she could just get free, maybe she could fight.

The potions smugglers reappeared before she could get her hands free. Director Graves appeared about forty-five seconds after that, strolling through the warehouse doors as though he owned the place.

"I believe you have something of mine," he said mildly. "I'd like it returned to me."

Tina shivered. Director Graves had loosened his famous iron control over his magic. She could feel it fill the warehouse like a living thing. It was like being caught up in a storm, something ancient and powerful and so much stronger than you. She'd known that he was strong -- the Graves bloodline always had been -- but she'd never had firsthand evidence of it before. Graves wasn't just powerful, he was _elemental;_ his power felt like the sea, all dangerous currents and undertows ready to drag the unwary beneath the waves and drown them.

"Do we?" the lead smuggler inquired. He turned towards his hostages, eyes lighting on Tina.

Tina supposed, as the only woman among them, that she looked like an easy target.

She bared her teeth. She'd show _him_ easy.

"Touch her," Graves said conversationally, "and I will break every single bone in your hands."

The lead smuggler hesitated. Most wizards didn't bother with physical violence. Why would they? Magic was swifter and easier and left fewer marks.

Graves was different. He was descended from one of the Twelve, and he fought any way he damn well pleased.

"That's what I thought," Graves said, and proceeded to flatten the smugglers with a series of quick hexes.

"Sorry, sir," Tina said, when Graves freed her from her bonds. "They shouldn't have had to call you in for this."

"Nonsense," said Graves. "This was infinitely more interesting than the meeting I had scheduled. I hate meetings."

Tina laughed, almost in spite of herself. No one had ever told her that the Director was _funny._

She waited for the surge of pathetic wanting to well up. Director Graves had saved her life -- had saved all their lives, including Warner's -- and he was handsome enough, if you liked them older and scowling.

It never came. She wasn't, despite everything she'd been through, even the slightest bit in love with Director Graves. She didn't want him the way she wanted President Picquery.

She just wanted to impress him. And that was exactly what she was going to do, if it was the last thing she ever did.


	11. St. Brigid's Hospital, 1929

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay guys. Things got a bit hectic in the real. There's a double update to make up for it though.
> 
> This is actually the first Possible 'verse Timestamp I ever wrote, not counting one on the kinkmeme that has been rewritten. By rights, this ought to have been the first chapter. (Oops.)
> 
> Written for the inestimable [TheSilverQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/works) and originally posted [on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/158915298991/proooooommmpppptttt-time-okay-can-you-do-15)

Percival had told him once that it was hard, being an Auror’s spouse, because it meant caring for someone whose job frequently put them in danger. No one could escape every danger unscathed; getting hurt on the job was an occupational hazard. There would always be someone faster on the draw, and sometimes your luck just plain ran out. Percival’s scars were proof enough of that, and Percival was the best Auror Credence knew. (He was, Credence admitted, a little bit biased about that, seeing as he was married to the man, but MACUSA never would have made Percival Head of MLE if he hadn’t been damn good at what he did.) Having a support group made being an Auror’s spouse easier, because there would always be someone who had been there before to be there for you when things fell apart. 

No one had ever mentioned what you were supposed to do when you _and_ your support group needed support at the exact same time for the exact same reason.

Credence looked over at Dorothy Collins, carefully projecting calm and shoving his rising hysteria down as deep at it would go. He needed to be strong for Dorothy, who was his best friend and his sister in every way except for blood. She didn’t have quite as much experience with her husband being injured in the line of duty as Credence did. Alex was much smarter than Percival, sometimes.

Dorothy caught him looking at her and put a brave smile on her face, dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes with a delicately embroidered handkerchief. “Everything’s going to be just fine,” she told him.

“Of course it is,” he said soothingly. “They’re both tougher than they have any right to be. They’ll pull through.”

Credence was being strong for Dorothy, and Dorothy was being strong for him. Maybe they could get through this together, after all. Credence didn’t mention the death grip Dorothy had on his hand, just like Dorothy wouldn’t mention that he was holding back just as hard.

“We were going to start trying for another baby,” Dorothy said, so quiet Credence thought he’d imagined it at first. “So the new baby and Sammy don’t grow up too far apart.”

“Gally will be jealous,” Credence observed. Galahad thought that Sammy Collins was _his,_ after all. “Or he’ll decide that the new baby is his, too.” Galahad had the Graves possessive streak in spades. Credence couldn’t decide if it was genetic or merely a byproduct of being two; Galahad thought that _everything_ was his, unless it was broken and couldn’t be played with.

“You could give him a little brother or sister of his own,” Dorothy pointed out.

“I’d like that,” Credence said. The idea had been brewing in the back of his mind for awhile now. He hadn’t mentioned it to Percival, not just yet. 

“I can’t do this without him,” Dorothy said, bursting into tears. “I can’t do this alone, Credence, I can’t.”

“Alex is not going to die,” Credence said firmly, pulling Dorothy into a hug. “And you wouldn’t be alone. You’d have me and Percival and Gally and all the cousins, not that it matters because Alex isn’t going to die.”

“You can’t promise that,” Dorothy said, muffled against his shoulder.

“Of course I can,” said Credence. “I’ll give you my word as a Graves on it, even.” He’d seen the Bluebird work miracles before, and Charlotte Summersea was shaping up to be almost as good as the Bluebird was.

He Apparated them both to St. Brigid’s hospital, bypassing the chaos of the Emergency Room and heading straight for the private ward. He gave the nurse at the front desk a narrow eyed look when she tried to stop him, pulling his magic around him like a cloak. “My name,” he said, very clearly, “is Credence Graves. This is Dorothy Collins. We are both here to see our stupid, reckless idiot husbands, and if you try to get in my way I will rip this building apart brick by brick.”

“I don’t think there’s any need for that,” Daniel Hughes said, trotting towards them.

“Daniel?” Credence asked, surprised to see the youngest Hughes sibling. “What are you doing here? Is Win alright?”

“Win’s fine,” said Daniel. “Got a goose egg, but it’s not like _that’s_ going to slow her down for very long.” He smiled at the nurse. “It’s alright, Meredith. They’re on the list. You could have just introduced yourself,” he pointed out, “rather than coming over all Scary Bastard like.”

“Being a Scary Bastard is faster,” Credence said. “What _happened?_ John’s pigeon didn’t say.”

“What happened,” Tina said, sounding angrier than Credence had heard her in a long time, “is that your husband is an _idiot.”_

“I think you might need to narrow that down a bit, darlin’,” Daniel drawled.

“Call me darlin’ one more time, I dare you,” Tina said. “Merlin’s balls, I should’ve moved to England with Newt.”

Daniel, who had been in Thunderbird a couple years ahead of Tina, did not actually possess a death wish and kept his mouth shut.

“Graves,” Tina continued, “decided that he’d put himself between me and a No-Maj with a souvenir _hand grenade_ from the war! As if I wasn’t _perfectly capable_ of casting my own Shield charm, or Apparating out of the blast radius! Which I _did,_ which is why _I_ am not sitting in a hospital bed of my own.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I can’t tell if it’s his training he doesn’t trust, or if it’s me.”

“Oh my god,” Credence said, using the hand that wasn’t clutching Dorothy’s to pinch the bridge of his nose to stave off the rage-induced headache. “He trusts you, he’s just incapable of not acting on some stupid, self-sacrificing instinct.”

“What about Alex?” Dorothy asked.

“He’s an idiot too,” Tina said, scowling. “Not as big an idiot as Graves, but he’s still an idiot. He tried to save Graves from his own stupidity, and he got a nice concussion for his troubles. So did Win, who had the foresight to cast a shield charm on them against the worst of the blast and forgot about all the flying debris.” She huffed. “I am surrounded by idiots.”

“My father’s not an idiot,” Charlotte Summersea pointed out, stepping out of the hospital room. “He’s not best pleased about having to clean up the mess, either.”

Charlotte was wearing pale Healer trainee green. The caduceus around her neck marked her as an apprentice Healer who had sat for her exams but not completed her last rotations yet. She was almost done with training. Credence could still remember her as a girl of eighteen, sitting in on his appointments with the Bluebird, because the Bluebird wanted her to get used to the nuances of the androgenesis spells.

It was strange to think of her as a Healer in her own right, and not the Bluebird’s apprentice.

“How are they?” he asked.

“Sore, grumpy, and not looking forward to getting yelled at by everyone they know,” Charlotte said promptly. “Aelinor’s already gone up one side and down the other, so they ought to be nice and tender for you, if you’d like to have a go.”

“I would,” Credence purred, all his worry transmuted into fury. “I really would.” He stalked, predatory, into the room where Aurors were triaged and treated.

Win, who had been arguing with the Bluebird, fell gratifyingly and immediately silent. “Oh, shit,” she said. “We fucked up. We fucked up real bad.”

“Yes,” Credence agreed. “Yes, you did. Scale of one to ten, how are you feeling?”

“Three?” Win asked, which was Auror for five. Win wasn’t completely reckless, and she only tended to lie about two degrees on the Auror Pain Scale.

“Alex?” Credence inquired.

“Also three?” Alex offered, looking miserably at his wife. “Aw, Dorothy, don’t cry.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do Alexander Edward Collins!”

That was probably a four, then. Alex didn’t lie as much about his tolerance for pain. 

“Percival?”

“Zero,” Percival said, which meant five as well. Percival was the worst patient in the _world._ “I’m going to kill John. He didn’t need to worry you unnecessarily.” 

“Unnecessarily,” Credence repeated. _“Unnecessarily?!_ You’re in the damned hospital, Percival, that’s exactly the kind of thing I need to know! All John’s pigeon said was that you’d been hurt! He didn’t mention that you’d gotten hurt being a _complete jackass!_ What _possessed_ you, throwing yourself between Tina and a _grenade_ like that.

“And you two,” he added, turning on Alex and Win. “What is wrong with you? Why did _neither_ of you use the brains god gave you and put charms on yourselves, first? Don’t even _try_ to make excuses,” he warned, when Alex opened his mouth. “I _know_ Percival’s lectured you on it, because I’ve heard him do it so much I can recite it in my sleep. Not that he’s any better,” he added tartly. “You enormous hypocrite.”

“Aelinor?” Percival said weakly. “A little help here?”

The Bluebird folded her arms across her chest. “If you think I am going to do anything but stand here and enjoy this, Percival, you don’t know me half as well as I thought you did.”

“It was instinct,” Percival said feebly.

“It was stupid, and the perfect example of what not to do,” Credence retorted.

“Er. Yes, that too,” Percival allowed. “I’m _sorry,_ love.” He looked over at Dorothy. “I owe you an apology as well. I’m meant to take better care of your husband than I did.”

Dorothy pursed her lips, looking torn between delivering her own righteous lecture and bursting into tears. Bursting into tears won, which made Alex jump out of his hospital bed and nearly fall over himself trying to get to her.

Credence made a mental note to ask Dorothy if she and Alex had already started trying for their second baby. Dorothy wasn’t usually this much of a watering pot; she was better under stress than _he_ was, most of the time. She’d cried a lot while she was pregnant with Sammy, though.

“Oh, no,” Percival said. He looked at Credence, utterly resigned to his fate. “I’m sleeping on the couch for this, aren’t I?”

“You’re sleeping on _Dindrane’s_ couch for this,” Credence told him, because it didn’t matter if Dorothy was pregnant or not, he still hated to see her cry.

“Right,” Percival sighed.


	12. New York, April 1928

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the splendid [Truetomorrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truetomorrow/pseuds/Truetomorrow) who found one of my terrible nerdy easter eggs in Chapter 13. 
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/166784597401/cross-posting-comment-fic-to-ignore-the-fact-that)

_New York, April 1928_

 

Credence couldn’t make up his mind about whether or not he liked poetry readings. He had a much better grasp on what he liked versus what he didn’t than he had a year ago, but Percival -- and everyone else he knew -- insisted that the best way to find out what he liked was to go out and try new things so that he could find out. The poetry readings were Queenie’s fault.

“You like reading,” she’d reasoned. “Maybe you’ll like reading poetry, too.”

Credence did. He didn’t like all of it -- Shakespeare was a bit hard to understand, sometimes, and his tendency to make up words did not help matters any -- but he liked the way that poetry _resonated,_ as though the poets were Legilmens like Queenie, and had reached into his head and his heart to pluck out _just_ the right words. Good poetry reminded him of the Bible, of metaphor and allegory and how a single sentence could leave him breathless and trembling.

Poetry readings, on the other hand, were a little awkward. Credence much preferred enjoying poetry in the privacy of his own home, where he could read through it to his heart’s content. Some things, he thought, were meant to be enjoyed _privately._

“Oh, for goodness sake, you make it sound like bedsport,” Queenie said tartly. “It’s _poetry,_ and there’s no shame in enjoying it with other poetry lovers. There’s nothing wrong with a little culture.”

“That’s what you said about the Museum of Natural History,” Credence reminded her. “We got kicked out, remember?”

“How was I to know Newt and Tina were quarreling?” Queenie huffed.

Credence just stared at her. He thought: because you’re a _Legilimens_ very clearly and very loudly.

Queenie scowled. “There’s no need to shout,” she admonished. “And this is nothing like the Museum of Natural History. It’s just the two of us. We’re not getting kicked out of anywhere.”

Credence looked around the room. The little cafe was mostly filled with people who were of an age with him and Queenie, with a few older gentlemen as well. He did not see anyone who looked like they would argue taxonomic classifications (Newt), haul off and punch someone for insulting their fiance (Tina), or try to diffuse the situation and wind up punching someone anyway (Jacob).

Queenie’s lips curled up at the corners. “You weren’t exactly innocent,” she reminded him, because Credence had been the one to _accidentally_ \-- Queenie always forgot to mention that part -- make the situation worse with a series of Knockback jinxes.

“I didn’t forget,” Queenie said mildly. “It’s just funnier if I don’t mention that part.”

“Thanks,” Credence grumbled.

Queenie was the only one to emerge from the Museum of Natural History incident unscathed, seeing as she’d been the one to Obliviate the indignant curators. It hadn’t stopped them from getting kicked out, though.

Credence still felt a twinge of residual mortification just thinking about it. His husband was the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. It reflected badly on Percival to have his spouse involved in such a public spectacle.

Percival, naturally, thought the whole thing was hilarious, and had to be talked out of decorating Galahad’s room with dinosaurs. If Credence never saw another dinosaur ever again, it would still be too soon.

“I think they’re ready to start,” Queenie whispered, dragging Credence to their seats.

The portly man at the lectern cleared his throat. “Evening all,” he said, a faint hint of a midwestern drawl in his voice. “A friend of mine back in Indiana wrote this last year, and I thought it would be nice to share it with you all tonight. He called it _Desiderata.”_

Credence startled. He hadn’t thought of the pale blue potion that tasted like liquid starlight since Galahad was born.

“It’s from the Latin for _desired things,”_ the man continued.

Credence shoved his thoughts behind a hastily erected mental wall. _Desired things._ Whoever had designed the potion that tasted like liquid starlight had a sense of humor.

Magic was like that, though. Serious and wonderful and occasionally full of terrible puns.

“Go placidly amid the noise and haste,” the man intoned, “and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.”

Credence sat up a little straighter. This, he thought fiercely. Yes, this. It was prose and poetry all in one: equal parts advice and desire for a life well-lived. It was the sort of advice that the scared boy he’d been would have treasured, kinder and more forgiving than Ma’s hellfire and damnation preaching.

It was the sort of advice the man who had Percival’s love recognized as a different sort of truth.

It was perfect, and it hurt. Credence thought that it hurt _because_ it was perfect -- the sort of thing he hadn’t known that he needed to hear, even now, free of Ma’s tyranny. He wanted to shout in exaltation and he wanted to cry.

Poetry was its own sort of magic.

“You are a child of the universe,” the man said, and it seemed like he was reading the words directly to Credence. For Credence, and the scared boy he’d been. “No less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.”

Queenie gripped his hand in her own, anchoring him. Credence realized that he was trembling faintly, but he squeezed back and smiled at Queenie to let her know that he was happy, not sad.

He didn’t -- he couldn’t -- pay attention to any of the poems that were read after that. Credence went to the portly man after the readings were over and said, “Excuse me, sir. Would it be possible for me to get a copy of the poem you read?”

The man smiled at him genially. “Did you like it?”

“It was wonderful,” Credence said honestly. “I felt it, here,” he added, pressing a hand to his heart.

“I’ll tell my friend you said so,” the man told him. He handed Credence a neatly typewritten copy of the poem. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Credence said, tucking the poem into his breast pocket.

“Did you really like it that much?” Queenie asked, as they walked out of the coffee house and back towards their part of New York.

Credence thought _you have a right to be here_ and _it is still a beautiful world._ He wanted to carve those words into the foundation of who he was, right down into the bedrock with Percival’s love.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

And if he re-read the poem that night, trying to soothe a fussy Galahad, well, that was between him and Galahad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem being read is [Desiderata by Max Ehrmann](http://mwkworks.com/desiderata.html) According to wikipedia, it was written in 1927 but not published until 1948, much less gain any kind of recognition until well after Ehrmann's death. I thought I'd circumvent that particular bit of history by having a friend of Ehrmann's read the poem.
> 
> If you haven't read _Desiderata_ before, you really should. It's quite lovely. This part in particular struck me as something that read very true for Credence, given his backstory:
> 
>  
> 
> You are a child of the universe,  
> no less than the trees and the stars;  
> you have a right to be here.  
> And whether or not it is clear to you,  
> no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.


	13. Graves Manor, Fall 1931

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the splendid [Truetomorrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truetomorrow/pseuds/Truetomorrow)
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/169988700346/okay-so-it-has-been-awhile-since-i-have-posted)

_Graves Manor, Fall 1931_

 

“I want,” Credence said between kisses, “another baby.” Clever, long-fingered hands made quick work of Graves’ buttons. Graves’ arms got stuck in his shirt and suit jacket and Credence laughed, leaning down to nip at Graves’ bottom lip. “Want some help with that?”

“If you don’t get me out of these things, I will vanish them and Tómas will murder me,” Graves said, although he didn’t give a flying fuck what his tailor was going to do at the moment. It was hard to concentrate on anything except the warm, sweet weight of his husband in his lap, pinning him to the chair.

“I can’t have that,” Credence said, untangling one of Graves’ wrists and then the other. “I’ve still got a use for you, yet.” He punctuated that statement with an obscene roll of his hips, all lithe grace and temptation.

“Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s fucking knights,” Graves muttered, his hands going automatically to Credence’s hips to steady him. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

That got him a warm, feline look of amusement. “So you keep saying,” Credence agreed. “But you’re not allowed to die until I’m done with you.”

“I’m feeling a bit objectified here, darling,” Graves said. “I’m starting to think you only want me for my cock.”

“I want you for _all_ of you, not just your cock,” Credence corrected tartly. “But it’s a very _nice_ cock,” he added, dropping his hands to Graves’ belt. “And I do enjoy it.”

“Well,” Graves said, vanishing both of their trousers and undergarments. The hell with Tómas anyway. “Then take your pleasure, my love.”

Credence wrapped a hand around his cock and smirked at him. “I’m not just after pleasure,” he reminded Graves. “I want another baby.”

Graves did not exactly _mind_ the thought of another baby. He knew that Credence wanted a big family, and while he was beginning to think they probably needed to discuss just _how big_ a family Credence wanted, he did not have it in him to deny Credence anything his heart desired. Especially not if what Credence wanted was within Graves’ power to give him.

Credence took his silence for disagreement.

“You like it when I’m carrying your babies,” he pointed out. “You like the sight of me round with your child, safe behind your wards and caring for our family. Percival, _please,”_ he said, not quite begging but close enough.

“Take it,” Graves said, casting the spell to get Credence slick enough to take his cock. “Take everything you want, darling, please.”

“Oh, thank God,” Credence muttered, sinking down onto his cock with a pleased sigh. “I hate it when you’re stubborn.”

“When _I’m_ stubborn,” Graves squawked. “That’s the kettle calling the cauldron black, coming from you.”

“I learned it from you,” Credence retorted, with a mischievous smirk. He settled into a fast, hard rhythm, riding Graves with the sort of single-minded purpose that did horrific things to Graves’ libido. His filthy mouth did not help matters any either. “Come on, sweetheart, make me yours. Fill me up, so that everyone who looks at me will _know_ who I belong to, that it’s your baby. Please, Percival, _please.”_

“Fuck,” Graves groaned, fisting Credence’s cock in time with his thrusts. “Come for me first, alright? Show me how good I make you feel.”

“Cheater,” Credence gasped, burying his face in Graves’ neck as he shuddered into orgasm. It was enough to tip Graves over the edge into following him.

“I didn’t cast the androgenesis spells,” Graves said, when both their heartbeats had slowed and synchronized with one another.

Credence sucked a bruise into the side of his neck, lazy and content. “I didn’t either,” he admitted.

“Do you still…”

“God, yes,” said Credence.

“Oh,” said Graves, absurdly pleased. “Alright then. We can just call this a practice round.”

Credence hummed in agreement. “I don’t suppose you feel like a bit more practice?”

“You are _definitely_ going to be the death of me,” Graves said.

 

_The next morning_

 

"I thought," Credence said. "Maybe five or six?"

Graves stared at him. "Five?" he repeated faintly. "Or ... six?"

"Does that seem small to you?" Credence asked, sounding concerned.

 _"Small?"_ Graves repeated.

Credence fidgeted. "I want you to have a proper legacy," he said.

"I have a legacy," Graves told him. "I have Galahad and Olwen and Gwen. I suppose Gwen is more Seraphina's legacy than mine, seeing as she wants to run for president, but you've already given me more than I ever dreamed about. You don't ... You don't need to exert yourself on my account. Not if you don't want to."

He did not dare to mention how much he liked that Credence would exert himself on his account. That Credence _wanted_ to carry his child, swollen and heavy with the proof of Graves' devotion.

Credence hesitated.

"What's wrong?" Graves asked, instantly concerned.

"Nothing," Credence said hastily. "It's just. Wizarding families are smaller than No-Maj ones, aren't they?"

"I suppose," said Graves, who had not actually given it any thought one way or another.

"We have better Healers," Credence said. "So more of our children live to adulthood."

Graves had never considered the childhood mortality rates for No-Maj's either.

"Fuck," he said. "I mean. Yes. We do. And they do. Nothing's going to happen to our children, Credence. We won't let it. Neither would the Bluebird."

"I know that," Credence said, a trifle impatiently. "I mean, I know that in my head. It's just ... it's hard to really believe, you know?"

Graves really, really didn't.

"I think," Credence said carefully, "that I still want a big family. Not because it increases their chances of living to adulthood, but because I want a big family with _you._ Is that ... is that something you might want too?"

Graves pretty much had to kiss him for that. "I want whatever you want," he said. "If you want a big family, then that's what I want, too. I want to meet our future children and find out all the ways they're a little bit like me, and a little bit like you. I want to find out how they're uniquely themselves."

Credence's eyes went dark with lust. "Percival," he purred.

"Yes, darling?"

"Cast the androgenesis spells," Credence commanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's interested, the Graves Brood at this point consists of:
> 
> Galahad, age 4  
> Olwen, age 11 months


	14. The Woolworth Building, March 1928

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the marvelous [bluebeholder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder) If you're not reading the Accidental Epic, you really ought to be, it's a delight.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/172489436521/i-figured-i-should-get-caught-up-on-posting)

_The Woolworth Building, March 1928_

 

Queenie’s head hurt.

The Woolworth Building was a cacophony of angry voices; some verbal, some mental. Everyone was on edge, because the Mather brothers had taken one of their own forty-eight hours ago, and MACUSA didn’t make deals with blackmailers and traitors.

Twelve hours ago Graves took his team out hunting Scourers.

Scourers, in this day and age. It was unthinkable.

Queenie hadn’t heard so much as a peep from Tina since. Graves and his team weren’t back yet, and that worried her. Teenie could handle herself - her sister was as capable a witch as any in a fight, and scrappy to boot - but Queenie worried.

She wasn’t the only one. Everyone was worried, so loudly it felt like they were shouting. At least half of the Legilimens interrogators had gone home, and the other half had retreated into their shared offices, which were warded against all the mental noise. No one ever bothered the interrogators in their domain unless they had to. It wasn’t polite.

Queenie wasn’t an interrogator, though. Queenie was silly and frivolous and only served them coffee. It was her job to move between the floors and make sure everything was running smoothly; no one would ever make an exception for _her._

Kristoff Fuchs, the unofficial department head for the Legilimens interrogators, made a soft noise of concern as soon as she stepped into the bullpen. He was the only one who was still in the thick of things. He reminded her very much of Graves, sometimes. He led from the front, and placed himself squarely in harm’s way to protect the people he considered his.

“Coffee, Mr. Fuchs?”

“Yes. Black, please, Miss Goldstein.”

He waited until he’d set the cup down to reach out and brush her mind with his.

The absence of noise was glorious. There was no shouting anywhere; her ears rang with the memory of it.

_You are welcome with us,_ he told her.

_I’m not one of you,_ she reminded him. She knew what the other Legilimens thought of her. They thought she was squandering her talents at best. The worst things they thought didn’t bear repeating.

_Ah,_ he said. He had more training than she did; she couldn’t hide who thought the worst things fast enough.

_It’s nothing,_ she insisted.

_It’s discourteous,_ he said, very firmly. You are not an interrogator, but you are still one of us. You have served MACUSA honorably and well.

Queenie swallowed hard around the lump in her throat. She felt the way Teenie did, whenever Graves said nice things about her. It was foolish - Fuchs wasn’t her supervisor or her mentor, so there was no reason that his words should carry so much weight.

_If you require shelter, I will provide it,_ he said.

_Thank you,_ she replied. _I’m honored that you would offer. But I’ll be okay._

Fuchs considered her, dark eyes thoughtful and measuring. _The others are idiots for not seeing how strong you are._

Queenie laughed out loud as he pulled his mind away. All of the noise came back, twice as loud for having been temporarily diverted.

That little bit of kindness was enough to carry her through the rest of her day.

Jacob took one look at her and _knew._ “Hey, sweetheart,” he said. “Put your feet up. I’ll get you a hot chocolate.”

A nice hot drink she hadn’t made _did_ sound nice. And Jacob’s hot chocolate was divine.

Queenie took a seat at the kitchen table that would be theirs, not just his, someday soon. She toed off her heels and reached out for the familiar comfort of Jacob’s mind.

He knew how to be quiet, her Jacob. His mind felt as soft and as kind as his smile; like the well worn pages of Nana Kowalski’s recipe journal.

Queenie loved him impossibly.

Jacob kissed her temples and set a mug of hot chocolate in front of her. “Rough day?” He sat down and pulled her feet into his lap, digging his thumb into the arch of her left foot. His hands were still warm from when he’d had them wrapped around the mug of hot chocolate, and the heat and pressure felt amazing.

Queenie relaxed into his touch, letting him ground her again. “It’s fine, now that I’m with you.”


	15. Graves Manor, February 1937

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the delightful [dailandin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dailandin/pseuds/dailandin) based on the following comment: _I'd pay money to see Credence actually slip up and call Percival 'pineapple' during sex. Just once_
> 
> Obviously this was a thing that needed to happen. Percival's terrible nickname from the war should absolutely be used to wind him up during sex. And at every other possible point in time.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/172678725411/comment-fic-for-the-fantastic-dailandin-who)

_Graves Manor, February 1937_

 

Percival, like most Aurors, had trouble leaving work at work. It was one of the things the Auror Spouses Network spent a lot of time complaining, commiserating and outright bitching about, but it was just part of being married to an Auror.

The Perlman case had all of Major Investigations tied up in knots. President Shellstrop was pushing for a nice, neat, _easy_ resolution. The discovery of where Perlman had hidden roughly three hundred thousand dragots worth of stolen goods was the sort of thing that went a long way in an election year. Major Investigations was doing their best to oblige her, but the investigation had stalled despite their best efforts. They hadn’t made a single bit of progress in close to two weeks, and it was driving all of them a little crazy. Saying it consumed their waking hours seemed like an exaggeration, until the night Credence came home and found Percival absently paging through his case notes while Galahad, Olwen and Gawain feasted on ice cream and leftover birthday cake for dinner.

Percival, Credence noticed, had served himself a slice of cake, and was stabbing the air next to it in an attempt to eat it without looking up from his notes. So far, he’d managed to eat about three bites.

Credence cleared his throat.

The children froze.

“That doesn’t look terribly nutritious,” Credence said mildly.

Galahad exchanged a look with Olwen, clearly debating what defense might get them in the least amount of trouble. Gawain, ignorant of the dilemma his older siblings were facing, cheerfully threw his father beneath the oncoming bus. “Daddy said it was okay,” he said, bright and piping.

“Did he,” Credence said. He fixed Galahad with the look that generally reduced recalcitrant senators to babbling incompetence.

“Well,” Galahad said, obviously still trying to come up with a reasonable defense. “We might have asked, first.”

And Percival, distracted as he was, had obviously agreed with whatever the children had wanted. Credence suspected he was lucky they hadn’t lobbied for an increase in their allowances. Or a pony.

“No dessert for a week,” Credence said.

“But Papa,” Olwen protested.

“Don’t make me make it two,” Credence warned her.

Olwen shut her mouth, staring at him with a plaintive expression.

“Finish your cake,” Credence told the children. “You might as well, since it’s the last sweet you’re seeing for a week. And you’re not allowed to complain about being hungry.” 

He went to the pantry and pulled out the loaf of bread he’d made two days ago. He assembled a couple of sandwiches, because the children would probably be hungry later once the sugar wore off. He probably should have let them go hungry -- one meal wouldn’t hurt them, healthy as they were -- but he couldn’t bear to subject his children to the same deprivations he’d grown up with. At least if they had ready access to sandwiches, they’d have something filling to eat without needing an adult to prepare it for them.

He set a sandwich down next to Percival, swapped one cut into tiny pieces for Elaine’s cake, and went upstairs to check on the twins, who were both too young to have been subject to their older siblings mischief.

Percival had managed to feed Lucan and Gareth their bottles. Lucan, the easiest baby in the world, slumbered peacefully in his crib, but Gareth was awake, watching Credence with Percival’s dark eyes. Credence picked him up and cuddled him, breathing in his soft baby scent. He paced the nursery, rocking Gareth until he went back to sleep.

Percival ushered the children upstairs on autopilot, clearly still thinking about the Perlman case. Galahad, Olwen and Gawain -- sensing the oncoming parental storm on the horizon -- went to bed obediently and quietly, while three year old Elaine demanded bedtime stories and kisses.

“Papa!” she squealed.

Percival blinked. “Credence? When did you get home?”

“Not that long ago,” Credence murmured.

Percival eyed him warily. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“How was dinner?” Credence countered. “More importantly, _what_ was dinner?”

Percival frowned. “Sandwiches?”

“Nice try,” Credence told him. “I brought you a sandwich. _You_ fed the children chocolate cake.”

“Oh,” said Percival. “Shit.”

“Swear jar!” Elaine shouted.

Percival bopped her on the nose. “Exactly right,” he said. “Kiss Papa goodnight.”

Elaine bestowed a smacking kiss on Credence’s cheek. “Goodnight Papa,” she said. “Goodnight Daddy.”

“Night, baby,” Percival told her, running a reverent hand over Elaine’s dark curls. “I’m sorry,” he said to Credence, closing the door to Elaine’s room behind her. “I was thinking about work, and I -”

“I know,” Credence said. He smiled ruefully. “You got caught up in work. It’s an Auror thing.”

“Er,” said Percival. “Yes.”

“It’s too bad,” Credence told him sadly. “I spent hours wrangling the Senate, and you know what kept me from strangling Sutter and his faction?”

“Your herculean sense of self-control?” Percival suggested.

“That, too,” Credence allowed. “But no. It was the thought that, no matter how frustrated I got, I was still coming home to you.” He looped his arms around Percival’s neck, letting his lips brush against Percival’s as he added, “And that you’d fuck all my frustrations out of me.”

“Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights,” Percival breathed, wrapping his arms around Credence’s waist and hauling him in close. He bent down to nip at Credence’s mouth, his chin, his neck. “Is that what you want, lovely?” he asked, voice dropping into a low, pleased rumble. “Do you want me to fuck you till you’re out of your head? Till you can’t remember anything but my name?”

 _“Yes,”_ Credence hissed. “That’s _exactly_ what I want, Percival, please.”

“Well,” Percival said. “Your wish is my command.” He spelled their bedroom silent and locked it, spreading Credence out on their bed like a feast. Credence clung to Percival’s broad back, leaving bruises in the shape of his fingertips as Percival moved inside of him.

“Oh,” Credence gasped, tilting his head back and arching into Percival’s thrusts. “There, Percival, please.”

“Mm,” Percival rumbled, low and pleased. “Yes.”

Credence could practically _see_ the moment Percival remembered that the Perlman case existed. Percival’s expression -- dark and pleased -- went ever so slightly distant. His cock pistoned into Credence steadily, still good, but not aiming for the places that would drive Credence out of his mind with pleasure.

“Percival,” Credence hissed. It was a warning, although Percival wasn’t paying enough attention to realize it.

“Mm-hmm,” Percival said, mouthing lazy kisses against his neck.

 _“Percival,”_ Credence said again. He gasped, because that got him slightly harder thrusts that were _almost_ what he wanted but not quite.

Well. No one could say Percival hadn’t brought this on himself.

 _“Pineapples,”_ Credence snarled, wrapping his legs around Percival’s waist so Percival couldn’t pull back. He bent his head and bit Percival’s shoulder, drawing blood.

“Credence,” Percival protested, aggrieved. “You know I hate that nickname.”

“I do,” Credence said pleasantly. “And normally, I’d respect your boundaries and not use it. However, I don’t think it’s too much to ask for anything less than your full and complete attention, seeing as you’re currently _inside of me.”_

“I wasn’t --” Percival began.

“Percival,” Credence said flatly.

Percival huffed a wolf-laugh. “Let me make it up to you?” he suggested.

Credence grinned back. “If you insist,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's interested, the Graves Brood at this point consists of:
> 
> Galahad, age 9  
> Olwen, age 6  
> Gawain, age 4  
> Elaine, age 3  
> Gareth & Lucan, age 3 months


	16. Ilvermorny Massachusetts, October 1944

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment fic for the inestimable [st00pz,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st00pz/pseuds/st00pz) goddess of art.
> 
> I have been looking forward to posting this with unreasonable levels of glee. The further adventures of the Graves Brood vs. Ilvermorny, featuring Gawain Graves, age twelve. Because twelve year old boys are going to be twelve year old boys, even when they're Graves'. 
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/166591620481/hi-just-letting-you-know-that-ive-been-having-a)

_Ilvermorny Massachusetts, October 1944_

 

“Do you know,” Professor Jauncey mused, “I am starting to think I should just create a Graves-specific form letter to send to your parents.” He sounded more wistful than anything else, as though the streamlined precision of a form letter would protect him from further Graves sibling antics.

Gawain was not sure _why_ the headmaster thought a form letter would protect him, but he sympathized with the impulse.

Gawain loved his older siblings, but he was not blind to their faults. Individually, Galahad and Olwen could be a lot to handle. Together, they were _terrifying._

“Sorry, sir,” he said, and meant it. He had no idea how to make Galahad and Olwen stop being Galahad and Olwen, and he was pretty sure the headmaster didn’t either. Gawain knew better than to try, but the headmaster didn’t seem to have figured that out yet.

Jauncey sighed. “I really think you mean that,” he said.

“Well,” Gawain said. “I’m not sorry about disrupting Professor Thompson’s class.”

The headmaster sighed again. “Of course you’re not. What _are_ you sorry about, then?”

“Galahad and Olwen.”

Jauncey’s puzzled look went a bit strained around the edges. A lot of people had that reaction to Galahad and Olwen, especially once they met them. “What do Galahad and Olwen have to do with your disrupting Professor Thompson’s class?”

“Nothing sir,” said Gawain. “I’m just sorry they’ve …” He made a vague hand gesture designed to convey Galahad and Olwen’s essential Galahad-and-Olwen-ness. “Y’know. Set a precedent for how the Graves family behaves.”

Jauncey looked down his nose at Gawain. He had rather a lot of nose to look down, so it was a pretty impressive look. “A precedent that you seem determined to follow,” he observed.

Gawain felt that was unfair, and said so. “I am not! I’m not _crazy,”_ he hastened to assure the headmaster. Galahad and Olwen were determined to follow Dad and Gwen and a lot of the Aunties and Uncles into MACUSA. Gawain was pretty sure MACUSA and the rest of wizarding America would be safer for it, but he was thought that anyone who wanted to be an Auror was just plain nuts. Anyone who voluntarily got chased and hexed and sometimes tortured by Dark wizards had to be off their rocker.

“Mr. Graves,” Jauncey said, repressive. “Fascinating as this discussion is, I am not going to debate the relative sanity of _anyone_ in the Graves family with you.”

Gawain squinted at him. He was pretty sure that the headmaster had just implied that they were _all_ nuts, but he wasn’t one hundred percent certain. He wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not.

Probably not. He was already in enough trouble.

“Right, sir,” he said. “Sorry, sir.”

“Getting back to the matter at hand,” said Jauncey. “Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, what happened.”

Gawain resisted the urge to make a face. Dad liked that trick. So did Uncle John and Uncle Alex. It was an Auror thing. Asking people to tell you what happened in their own words put them at ease, and it also made them more likely to slip up and tell you more than they meant to.

Gawain had gotten wise to _that_ trick when he was about three.

“Professor Thompson was teaching us about healing potions,” Gawain said, trying to make it sound like he wasn’t thinking _very carefully_ about what he was saying. “Today we were covering Pepper-Up, ‘cause we’re coming up on cold season, and he wanted to be preemptive. And then someone asked if he meant for us to test the potion on ourselves, and Professor Thompson said yes. And she said, _that’s dangerous, sir,_ and he said, _I assure you, Ms._ \-- Um.” Gawain gave the headmaster a slightly panicked look. He did not want to get Rosamund Weiss in trouble too. She hadn’t even done anything wrong, aside from point out that it was dangerous to experiment on children. “Anyway,” he forged on. “He said, _I assure you that if you brew the potion correctly, it’s not dangerous at all._

“Except, it kind of is,” Gawain said. “Because we’re students and we’re still learning, and I think Libby Frasier’s melted more cauldrons than anyone else in Ilvermorny history, so her potion probably wouldn’t be safe to drink _at all._ And Uncle Robert says that you should never, ever test a potion that you’re not completely sure of. Especially not outside of a controlled laboratory setting,” he added, because Papa had a bizarre love of potions and he and Uncle Robert could go on about them for _hours._ “Uncle Robert has this whole speech about lab safety,” Gawain added. “I’ve heard it kind of a lot.”

Jauncey looked resigned. “Yes, I gathered. You seem to have it memorized.”

“Er,” said Gawain. “I didn’t really _mean_ to give the lab safety speech,” he said. “It just kind of … happened.”

That part was the first out and out lie he’d told all day. Professor Thompson had turned an ugly look on Rosamund. Gawain knew that look. It was the look that said Rosamund would be the one to try Libby’s potion, regardless of how it turned out, and that he wouldn’t let her go to the infirmary afterwards, either.

Gawain hadn’t wanted Rosamund to be sick. The Weiss’ and the Graves’ were allies. Sort of. He didn’t think Dad and Director Weiss got along very well personally, but they had each other’s backs professionally and that seemed to be good enough for them. Grown-up’s were weird like that.

Also, Rosamund was _really pretty._ Gawain got kind of stupid around her sometimes. He couldn’t help it.

So he’d cleared his throat and said, “Actually, sir, Miss Weiss is absolutely correct. The dangers of cross-contamination alone present an unreasonable risk.”

Professor Thompson had stared at him. “Mr. Graves,” he’d said, in a tone that suggested that Gawain was twelve and therefore dumb. “Do you even know what cross-contamination means?”

“Contaminating one substance with another,” Gawain had said promptly. “It’s dangerous in a laboratory setting, or with food, if you have allergies. In a laboratory setting -- especially a teaching one, like this one -- you’ve no idea whether or not who used your workstation last cleaned it as well as they should have, so there’s a risk that your potion might be contaminated with whatever they were working on.”

“No one likes a know it all, Mr. Graves,” Thompson had drawled.

“Sorry, sir,” Gawain had said, obviously not sorry at all. “It’s just, shouldn’t we be taught the principles of lab safety? It’s important.”

Libby had raised her hand. “I’d kind of like to know the principles of lab safety,” she’d said.

“That’s because you’re dangerous,” Atticus Lee had told her.

 _“Exactly,”_ Libby had said. “If there’s a way for me _not_ to be dangerous in class, I want to know what it is.”

That had made a lot of sense to the rest of the class, and Gawain figured that was as good a time as any to launch into Uncle Robert’s Lab Safety Is Important And Here’s Why speech.

“You gave a twenty minute lecture on lab safety,” Jauncey said, drawing Gawain back into the present. “The other students took _notes.”_

Gawain rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I might’ve been quoting Uncle Robert when I said there’d be a quiz.”

“And that just … happened,” said the headmaster.

“Yes?” Gawain ventured.

“Merlin’s beard,” said Jauncey. “It’s Galahad and the dueling club all over again.”

“Hey,” protested Gawain. “I’m not _that_ bad.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Graves, but you and your brother have rather more in common than you think,” the headmaster said.

Rude, thought Gawain. He kept his mouth shut, though. Authority figures rarely wanted to know what you thought of their opinions.

“Please refrain from taking over your professor’s classes in the future,” Jauncey commanded.

“Yes, sir,” said Gawain.

“You will apologize to Professor Thompson,” the headmaster continued.

Since Jauncey didn’t say he had to be sincere, Gawain was willing to meet him halfway.

“Yes, sir,” Gawain said again.

“And you have two weeks of detention,” Jauncey finished.

“Yes, sir,” Gawain said.

Jauncey sighed. “You can go back to class,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Gawain said.

“And Gawain?”

Gawain turned back at the door. “Sir?”

“We do, actually, have your safety in mind. I wish you’d trust that.”

If he really had their safety in mind, he’d have taken Gawain and Rosamund’s point and made sure that Professor Thompson didn’t make the students test improperly prepared potions on one another.

Gawain ducked his head, acknowledging the headmaster’s point.

He bet Galahad and Owen would have some ideas about how to deal with Professor Thompson, if the headmaster wouldn’t.

Terrifying wasn’t so bad, when it was on your side. And there was nothing the Graves siblings couldn’t do, as long as they did it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's interested, the Graves Brood at this point consists of: 
> 
> **At Ilvermorny:**  
>  Galahad, age 17, Wampus  
> Olwen, age 13 (almost 14), Wampus  
> Gawain, age 12, Thunderbird
> 
>  **Too young for Ilvermorny:**  
>  Elaine, age 10  
> Lucan and Gareth, age 5  
> Lyonesse, age 3  
> Dagonet, age 2


	17. Ilvermorny Massachusetts, November 1944

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further comment fic for the inestimable [st00pz,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st00pz/pseuds/st00pz) goddess of art. This is a direct follow up to Chapter 16. The continuing adventures of the Graves Brood vs. Ilvermorny, featuring Galahad Graves, age 17. Galahad is _definitely_ his father's son. (There were, admittedly, one or two people *cough* Donaldson *cough* who wondered whether or not he was Grindelwald's kid.)
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/166887383561/so-i-couldnt-stop-thinking-about-what-st00pz)

_Ilvermorny, Massachusetts, November 1944_

 

“And now I have detention,” Gawain concluded.

Galahad pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the inevitable headache. It didn’t help.

This was not how Galahad wanted to spend his evening. He had, maybe, three hours of free time all week to spend with his girlfriend. He did not want to spend them attempting to beat common sense into Gawain’s head, mostly because he was pretty sure that was a lost cause.

Sam, well versed in Graves sibling dynamics, just made an amused noise and kept her attention firmly on her book. Sam thought most of the Graves sibling interactions were hilarious, as long as they kept her out of their drama.

This was Professor Jauncey’s revenge for the dueling club. Galahad was sure of it. And, okay, _fine,_ Galahad could have been a _little_ more subtle about taking over the dueling club, but Professor Branagh was an idiot who barely knew which direction to point his wand in. Teaching people the proper forms and etiquette was all very well and good, but Dad always said that survival was more important than your manners.

Galahad agreed with Dad. Jauncey probably did too, although he was not above making Galahad’s siblings Galahad’s problem. Galahad couldn’t really blame the headmaster. He was the oldest and therefore responsible for the rest of the little monsters. If he could’ve foisted responsibility of them onto someone else ....

Well, he still wouldn’t have done it, because they were _his_ siblings, but he’d have been pretty tempted.

“I’m not intervening with Papa on your behalf,” Galahad said. Dad like to pretend he was a total hardass -- and he could be, with his Aurors -- but of the two of them, Papa was the disciplinarian at home.

Gawain looked at him like he was stupid. “I don’t want you to intervene with Papa,” he protested. “I want you to help me make Jauncey see that Thompson is dangerous.”

Galahad folded his arms across his chest and frowned. “Dangerous how?” he asked. Thompson wasn’t a disgusting pig, like Saunders. He was a bit of a dick, yeah, but he’d never struck Galahad as being much of a threat to anything other than people’s free time. Thompson was a bit too fond of giving people detention.

Gawain’s _you must be stupid_ look went frustrated with a side of incredulity. “He wanted us to test our Pepper-Up potions _on each other,”_ he said.

“So?” Galahad asked. He remembered that unit from second year. Olwen had done it, too. It was part of the curriculum. It was just the way things had always been done.

“So we’re _students,”_ Gawain said, throwing his hands up in the air for dramatic emphasis. “Libby Frasier’s in my class, and she’s melted more cauldrons than _anyone._ Her potions never come out right! If she’d drunk her Pepper-Up -- or if someone else had -- they’d probably be in the infirmary being treated for -- I don’t even know. Accidental poisoning, probably. Our potions are supposed to be, y’know, experiments.”

“He’s got a point,” Sam murmured, not looking up from her book.

Gawain beamed at her. The little brat knew full well that if he got Sam on his side, Galahad would fold like a house of cards.

“How d’you reckon?” Galahad asked.

“Libby Frasier’s been in the infirmary for potions burns six times already this year, and it’s only _October._ That’s almost once a week or so. The poor thing’s a danger to herself and everyone around her,” Sam told him. Sam - whose childhood knack for healing charms had blossomed into the sort of talent that hadn’t been seen since the Bluebird - worked as a student assistant in the infirmary. Having a girlfriend who worked in the infirmary was very helpful when it came to dealing with his siblings; Galahad always had the inside scoop on whatever dumbass stunts they’d _actually_ pulled versus what they wanted him to think they’d been doing. (The Bluebird maintained that was a uniquely Graves trait. Galahad suspected it was just what happened when most of your extended family was made up of Aurors, who were almost pathologically incapable to admitting to being injured, much less how badly said injuries hurt.)

“No one wants to be her partner in potions,” Gawain piped up. “And Thompson’s not helping her much, either.”

People who were reckless with the lives entrusted to their care didn’t deserve that trust. Dad had taught him that. So had his siblings. Looking after his brothers and sisters wasn’t _quite_ the same thing as being the Director of Magical Security, but Galahad would have done anything to keep the little monsters from harm, just like Dad would have for his Aurors.

Sam’s mom maintained that Dad was the best Director of Magical Security MACUSA had seen in ages, because he knew that the lives of his Aurors weren’t coins to be spent cheaply. People trusted Dad because they knew he wouldn’t put them in harm’s way unless he thought they would come home again. (Or unless he absolutely had to, but that was a lesson Galahad suspected Dad hadn’t wanted him to learn just yet.)

“Alright, brat,” Galahad said. “I’m listening.”

Gawain relaxed. He was still young enough to believe that Galahad could fix anything.

“The thing is,” Gawain said, “Rosamund’s right. It’s dangerous having students test their potions on each other.” He scowled when Galahad raised an eyebrow at the mention of his crush, but Galahad figured a bit of brotherly ribbing was his due, seeing as _every single person_ in his family had been completely insufferable while he was trying to work up the nerve to ask Sam out. “It’s like Uncle Robert says, when he’s doing the lab safety speech.”

Galahad held up a hand. Gawain had already given the lab safety speech once today. And magic knew he’d already heard it enough; potions was pretty much the only safe after-dinner conversation during the holidays. (Mostly because politics got dangerous with Dad and Aunt Seraphina in the room, wizards didn’t put much stock in religion, and who was having kids was … well. Pretty much always Dad and Papa and therefore not all that interesting.)

“Student potions are especially problematic,” Sam murmured. “The dosages aren’t held to the standardized scale, and if you give a kid the wrong dosage for their body weight … There’s a _reason_ potions are supposed to be prescribed by a qualified Healer.”

“Or a potions master,” Galahad pointed out. “Which Thompson is, or he’d never have been hired here.” He considered that. “That might actually be worth looking into.” He made a mental note to follow up on that with George, Dad’s current protege. George owed him a favor, after that thing with the murderous tomatoes last summer.

Sam sniffed. “I doubt he’s run them for every single student. I don’t know that anyone has, at least not past Isolt Sayre. The Pepper-Up unit is taught as a hands on one because that’s the way it’s always been.”

Gawain set his jaw stubbornly. “Just because that’s the way something’s always been done doesn’t mean that it’s _right,”_ he said.

People liked to make a big deal about Galahad being Dad’s heir. Or his copy, or Director Graves in miniature. Galahad didn’t mind the comparison, although sometimes it chafed a little. He knew that he took after Dad. He had Dad’s ridiculously overprotective personality and his talent for silent, wandless spellwork, with Papa’s reserves of magical ability to back his talents up. Olwen was like Dad, too, even if she deliberately modeled her behavior after the aunties.

Gawain, though. Gawain was like Papa. Out of all of them, he was the only one so far who had inherited Papa’s sensitivity to magic.

And, apparently, Papa’s habit for revolution.

“We can do better,” Gawain told him. “Professor Thompson should be tutoring Libby privately, so she learns the same as the rest of us. Or if he doesn’t want to do that, he should at least make one of the older kids do it. And the rest of us ought to be taught how to be safe in a lab. Even if we don’t go on to be researchers or potions masters or anything like that, it’s a good skill. It’ll teach us to be clean, and aware of our surroundings, and to think about things methodically rather than just dumping shit in pots and hoping for the best.”

“Language, brat. There’s a lady present.”

“You’ve said worse,” Gawain argued.

That was true, but Galahad’s point remained. He caught his younger brother up in a headlock and rumpled his hair while Gawain squawked indignantly.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Gawain muttered. He shoved Galahad’s arm off and said, “Will you help me?”

“You’re my brother. Of course I will.”

Gawain beamed at him.

“So, first thing’s first,” Galahad said. “Sam’s going to get us some numbers.”

“Oh, _am_ I,” Sam murmured, in a tone that promised he’d regret trying to give her orders later. Sam Collins took orders from no one.

“Sam, darling, my sun, my moon, my stars, light of my life, would you please take pity on us poor idiot Graves boys?” Galahad asked.

Sam sighed. “Fine,” she said. “But only because I’ve got a soft spot for you idiots. _Someone’s_ got to look after you. Merlin knows you won’t do it yourselves.”

“Can you look into how many cases there are of … Hm. Medical complaints after student-brewed potions?” Galahad asked. “Going back a couple years?”

“You’re lucky that you’re good looking,” Sam said tartly.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Galahad promised, all innuendo and dark intent.

“Gally,” Gawain whined. _“Ew.”_

“Shut it, brat, I’m helping,” Galahad said. “Next thing to do is get your classmates on board.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna be hard,” Gawain mused. “Thompson’s a dick.”

Yeah, neither did Galahad, honestly.

“After that, we get someone who’s _really good_ at potions to tutor you guys. Maybe with some private lessons for Libby.” Galahad flicked through his mental roster of the students in his year and the one below it. Toussaignt would make the poor Frasier kid cry. Hartman was his first choice, but Hartman hated him.

“There’s no one better than Andrea Hartman,” Sam pointed out.

“Hartman hates my guts,” Galahad reminded her.

“No, Hartman hates Olwen’s guts. You, she hates by extension, but not quite as much.”

“How is that going to help?” Galahad asked.

“If you make Olwen make nice with Hartman, Hartman will agree to help you.”

Galahad laughed. No one made Olwen do anything. She’d follow where Galahad led, but she did it kind of like Dad did with Aunt Seraphina. By choice rather than blind obedience, and with the knowledge that if Galahad proved unworthy, she’d take over in his stead.

Sam waited patiently.

“Shit. Seriously? You don’t want me to do something a little easier? Like, I don’t know, pulling a star out of the sky for you to wear?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gally,” Sam said tartly. “A star would be much too big.”

“Sam,” Galahad whined, because he’d outgrown that ridiculous baby name over a decade ago and really disliked the reminder.

“Galahad,” she retorted.

“Oh, fine,” Galahad said. “The things I do for this family, I swear.”

“How is getting good at potions going to make Jauncey see that Thompson’s dangerous?” Galahad asked. “If we’re good at potions even though he’s a dick, it just makes him look good.”

“Oh, that’s not what Hartman’s going to be teaching you,” Galahad said, watching the plan unfold in his head. “I mean, yeah, I do want you guys to learn lab safety because you’re right about the things it teaches you.”

“Sorry, I didn’t have a recording charm on. Can you repeat the part about how I’m right?” Gawain ducked back, laughing, as Galahad took a swipe at him. “What do you want Hartman to teach us?”

“Let me see if Hartman’s on board, first,” Galahad said. “I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

 

*

 

Andrea Hartman was something of a potions prodigy. Galahad knew for a fact that she was being scouted by the Fisher Institute _and_ the Niehaus-Cormier group. No one who wasn’t top of their class got to work for the Fisher Institute. (See Exhibit A: Aunt Dindrane and Uncle Robert.)

He hadn’t expected her to have such a knack for teaching, though. He’d sat in on the lessons -- mostly to make sure that Ollie did not snap and murder Hartman, since Hartman had only agreed to help out if Ollie would play her assistant -- and Hartman was actually really good at what she did. She was thorough and methodical, which worked well with the students who were good at following directions, but just enough of an out-of-the-box thinker to be able to relate to the students who didn’t quite see the world in an orderly line. She’d probably do really well at the Fisher Institute.

“Alright, minions,” Hartman said brightly. “Today: the reward for all your hard work.”

Forty-odd second years looked up at her in semi-worshipful anticipation. Or, in Libby Frasier’s case, actual worship.

“Today,” Hartman said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I am going to teach you to _safely_ blow shit up and make a huge fucking mess of the potions classroom.”

“You are the _best_ big brother in the history of ever,” Gawain told him.

“Sorry, I didn’t have a recording charm on. Can you repeat that?” teased Galahad.

Gawain shoved him in the side.

“Make me proud, brat.”

 

*

 

Jauncey stared at Professor Thompson. The man looked as though he’d tripped sideways into a surrealist painting, possibly while said painting was still wet. He appeared to be wearing nothing but his underclothes, although that was hardly noticeable beneath the layer of orange slime he was wearing. And _that_ was mostly covered by the strange purple foam.

The purple foam smelled strongly of asafoetida and other, less pleasant things.

“I want that little brat _expelled,”_ Thompson yelled. “This is all his doing! Do you know how many cauldron’s have exploded this semester?”

“Yes,” Jauncey said, because the director of finance had already raked both of them over the coals for that. The phrase “does it look like I am made of cauldrons” had come up, and Jauncey hoped never to hear it again. There was no safe answer to that. “Forty-seven. A new school record.”

“Forty-seven!” howled Thompson. “They’ll be coming out of my paycheck, next.”

“I think Fontaine was joking about that,” Jauncey soothed. He really _hoped_ Fontaine was joking about that, because if Fontaine wasn’t, _his_ paycheck was likely to be sacrificed next.

“And if the cauldrons aren’t exploding --”

“Or melting,” Jauncey put in, because that had happened at least a dozen times too.

“-- or melting, then the potions themselves are just --” Thompson made a vague gesture indicating a geyser of some sort. Or possibly fireworks. “Except what they _turn in_ is perfect.”

That was honestly the biggest mystery. Jauncey had a few theories about how and why that was happening, and it mostly centered around Andrea Hartman’s brand new unholy alliance with Olwen Graves.

“Expelled!” Thompson said.

Jauncey sighed and summoned one of the Ilvermorny elves. “Peridot, would you please bring Galahad to my office?” he asked.

“Not Galahad!” Thompson shouted. _“Gawain.”_

Jauncey resisted the urge to slam his head against his desk. “On second thought, Peridot, just bring me a bottle of whiskey. The sort Cook favors will be lovely.”

Peridot had been an Ilvermorny elf for longer than Jauncey had been alive. “Will sir prefer the whiskey Cook drinks, or the whiskey Cook puts in the food?”

“Are they different?”

Peridot shrugged.

“Then I trust your judgment. Bring me whatever is the least likely to make Cook come shout at me, please.”

“Sir,” Thompson protested, aggrieved.

“No,” Jauncey told him. “I am not debating this with you now.” Merlin’s balls. He thought Gawain had gotten this out of his system.

Evidently not.

“I will discuss this with you once you no longer look like a walking advertisement for the importance of lab safety,” Jauncey informed Thompson. “Merlin’s beard, man, why haven’t you showered it off?”

“I did,” Thompson said through gritted teeth. “The reaction melted my clothes and resulted in _this.”_ He indicated the purple foam.

Memory nagged at Jauncey. He’d seen that particular potions reaction before, but where?

Oh, hell. Arthur Graves-Flores. Arthur had been about Gawain’s age when he’d discovered that particular reaction, come to think of it.

It could have been worse, Jauncey reflected. At least they’d dragged the mild-mannered cousin into it. Magic help them if the Graves Brood decided to get Gwen or Lance involved.

“Right,” said Jauncey. “Then I suggest you head to the infirmary, and see if Healer Cole can do anything for you. I will discuss this with you tomorrow, Thompson.”

“If you won’t do something about that boy --” Thompson said warningly.

Jauncey smiled blandly. The students of Ilvermorny were under his care. He was not the duelist he had been in his youth, but he was still equal to the task of defending them.

Thompson shut his mouth.

“I will deal with Gawain,” Jauncey promised. And Galahad, and Olwen, and Andrea Hartman. And probably Samantha Collins, too, for all that the Graves’ siblings were adamant about leaving her out of their mischief. Thank magic her brother Peter had too much common sense to let himself get dragged into any Graves sibling shenanigans.

“See that you do,” Thompson snarled, and stomped out.

Jauncey put his head down on his desk. When he looked up again, William the Pukwudgie was staring grouchily down at him.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” Jauncey told him. “Or do you want to give an old man a heart attack?”

William’s judgmental silence got a bit judgier.

“I know you’re older than I am,” Jauncey said. “At least, as far as the stories go.” Also literally. William was ancient, even by pukwudgie standards.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” William snapped. “I don’t look a day over one hundred.”

“You know, remarks like that really don’t help,” Jauncey told him. Even he didn’t know if William was the original William who had known Isolt Sayre, or if the pukwudgies had passed the name down the same way wizards did.

Peridot reappeared with a bottle of whiskey for Jauncey and a bottle of berrywine for William.

“Thank you, Peridot,” Jauncey said.

William grunted something that _might_ have been thank you.

“What do you think I should do?” Jauncey asked.

“With Thompson? Or with the Graves brats?”

“You like the Graves brats.”

William shrugged. “So do you. They’re entertaining, and they’re good about not making extra work for us.” By _us_ he meant the pukwudgies and the house elves.

Jauncey hadn’t missed the way the pukwudgies on staff watched the Graves children after the Thunderbird Incident. The pukwudgies complained about having to look after wizards -- who were too naive and helpless to look after themselves, according to William -- but he’d never heard them complain about Galahad and Olwen and Gawain. He suspected he wouldn’t hear them complain about the rest of the Graves brood, either.

“Fine. What do you think I should do about Thompson, then?” Jauncey asked.

William mimed shooting an arrow. “Target practice?” he suggested. “Or you could let them explain,” he added, seconds before there was a knock on the door.

Jauncey sighed and put the whiskey bottle in his desk. “Come in, Galahad,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Galahad said politely, stepping into Jauncey’s office.

He really did look just like his father, Jauncey thought. There was a bit of Credence Graves in the tilt of his eyes and the sharpness of his jaw, though. Olwen stood at his right hand, and Sammy Collins at his left. Andrea Hartman stood next to Olwen. Three weeks ago, Jauncey was fairly certain Andrea wouldn’t have even deigned to breathe the same air as Olwen, but he’d been teaching for long enough to know that teenage friendships were fickle and terrifying.

“I was hoping I might have a word with you,” Galahad said, still with that exquisite politeness. He’d learned _that_ from his Papa. Percival Graves did not have much use for manners, but Credence could bring a man to his knees with just a few well-placed words.

“By all means,” Jauncey said, conjuring up chairs for the lot of them. “Take a seat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's interested, the Graves Brood at this point consists of:
> 
>  **At Ilvermorny:**  
>  Galahad, age 17, Wampus  
> Olwen, age 13 (almost 14), Wampus  
> Gawain, age 12, Thunderbird
> 
>  **Too young for Ilvermorny:**  
>  Elaine, age 10  
> Lucan and Gareth, age 5  
> Lyonesse, age 3  
> Dagonet, age 2


	18. Godric's Hollow, June 1899

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in reply to an ask from the delightful janabear21, on tumblr. The ask was: _will you write about albus and gellert's time together?"_
> 
> I fudged the ages a bit, so that they're both about 18 in the summer of 1899 when everything goes so very catastrophically wrong.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/166677329141/will-you-write-about-albus-and-gellerts-time)

_Godric’s Hollow, June 1899_

 

Albus set _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ on Ariana’s nightstand. She was sleeping peacefully for the first time in a week, and it was a coin toss as to which of them was more exhausted. He was honestly torn between crawling into bed and passing out until her nightmares woke him again and curling up somewhere and crying out of sheer frustration.

Eighteen was too young to be an orphan, much less a father. His life was over before it had even begun.

A month of parenthood had taught him to listen for even the faintest noises. Albus turned at the sound of footsteps in the hall, expecting to see Aberforth. Aberforth was better at soothing Ariana than he was and they both knew it.

He found Gellert standing there instead.

Albus rose and left Ariana’s room on silent feet, shutting her door behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he told Gellert. “I’ve been a poor host this evening, I think. You must be disappointed. I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend it.”

“Albus,” Gellert chided, his voice low and fond. “You could never disappoint me.”

Albus’ stomach twisted. Gellert was so beautiful it hurt to look at him sometimes, and his mind was every bit as beautiful as his body. Albus had never wanted anything or anyone quite like he wanted Gellert.

 _You mustn’t ever let anyone realize that you’re different,_ he thought, hearing an echo of his mother’s voice in the words. _You must keep it a secret. Promise me, Albus._

_I promise, Mother._

If he’d learned anything from his mother, it was how to keep secrets.

Wizarding England wasn’t subject to Muggle England’s laws, but Wilde’s arrest had been a mere four years ago. There were plenty of wizards who agreed with Wilde’s prosecutors, and thought that “the love that dare not speak its name” was something shameful.

Albus couldn’t bear it if Gellert were one of them. It was better to languish in ignorance than to know the truth and find his heart ripped in two.

Gellert followed him back down the stairs, settling into the chair that Albus was beginning to think of as Gellert’s, even after so short an acquaintance. Albus took his own chair and wondered if he ought to apologize again.

The look on Gellert’s face stopped him in his tracks. Albus had grown used to Gellert’s brilliance -- to at last find the one mind which could keep up with his own, practically anticipating his thoughts before Albus even had them -- but he did not think he would ever grow accustomed to Gellert’s intensity, the weight of Gellert’s attention. It was headier than wine and just as intoxicating.

“What was done to your sister was not right,” Gellert said.

“No,” Albus murmured, feeling a reflexive twinge of rage at that long ago wrong. His father had done what he could to make it right, but that, too, was wrong. He’d spent what felt like his whole time at Hogwarts trying to get out of the shadow of Percival Dumbledore’s misdeeds.

Be brilliant, be better, be clever and witty and charming. Your father died in Azkaban for attacking Muggles but _you’re_ not like that, not you. Never you. Never let them see you flinch; never let them see you bleed.

Never let them know you think those Muggles had it coming.

“No Muggle should ever be permitted to hurt one of us,” said Gellert. “One of them, laying hands on one of _our_ people? It’s unthinkable.”

Albus admired his daring. What was it like to be Gellert, to be so fearless and ferociously confident that he could voice all the thoughts Albus was too much of a coward to admit that he had?

“There are a lot more of them than there are of us,” Albus reminded him. “And the Statute of Secrecy --”

“Fuck the Statute,” Gellert said savagely. “What does it do but hurt those it should protect?” He stood up, prowling around Albus’ sitting room like a caged lion. “Did it protect your sister, when those Muggle boys attacked her? Did it protect your father? No. It took your father from you. Your father, who should be here, in your place. You’re too smart to believe in such rubbish, Albus, I know you are.” He dropped to his knees in front of Albus’ chair and reached for Albus’s hands. “I know you,” he said. “I know you think as I do, and I know you’re afraid to admit it, because they taught you to be afraid.

“You don’t have to be afraid. Not with me. I’ll keep you safe, I swear it.”

“Safe from what?” Albus asked, his throat gone dry with longing.

“Anything,” said Gellert. “Everything.”

The conviction in Gellert’s voice made Albus’ blood rise in response, answering the call to arms. Gellert sounded like a revolutionary.

He sounded like a king.

Albus licked his lips. Gellert watched him do it, something hungry in his gaze. “What are you going to do, Gellert?” he asked. “What are you planning?”

Albus already knew what Gellert was planning, but he wanted to hear Gellert say it.

“I’m going to change the world,” Gellert said. “I’m going to make sure that what happened to your sister never happens to anyone else, ever again. I’m going to build a _better_ world, Albus, and I want you to help me do it. Will you stand with me?”

Albus would have followed Gellert into hell, if that was what Gellert wanted.

“Yes,” he said. _“Yes.”_

Gellert relaxed minutely, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. Had he truly thought that Albus would say no? Was Albus so poor a friend?

Albus had to make him see. Gellert had to know how much he meant to him.

He still had Gellert’s hands clasped in his. Albus squeezed them tightly. “I will stand with you,” he said. “Against everything and everyone, I swear it.”

Gellert squeezed back and pressed a kiss to the back of Albus’ right hand. Albus could feel the shape of his mouth there for hours later, as if he’d been branded.

“You and I are going to change the shape of history,” Gellert said. “Just you wait and see.”

“Together,” Albus said.

“Always,” Gellert said, and it sounded like a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to read the Possible 'verse Timestamps in chronological order, [there's a masterlist on my tumblr now.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/possibleversetimeline) New links will be added as comment fic is posted to tumblr.


	19. Graves Manor, May 1930

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Yukinojo14,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yukinojo14/pseuds/Yukinojo14) who wanted to know if Credence was ever going to get the chance to top, maybe with Graves riding him and being extra careful of the baby bump.
> 
> Because I am a human disaster, I spent a _truly regrettable and hilarious_ amount of time considering the logistics of that, given the probable size of the baby bump in question. There may have been stick figures.
> 
> Couldn't quite work it out for Baby #1, so I went with Baby #2 instead.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/172776094666/more-comment-fic-because-today-seems-like)

_Graves Manor, May 1930_

 

Pregnancy, the second time around, brought with it a whole host of new side effects. Credence thought that he knew what to expect, seeing as he’d already been pregnant once before, but apparently he was very wrong about that. Dindrane and Dorothy, veterans of second pregnancies, mostly just laughed at him for making assumptions.

“Every pregnancy is different,” Dindrane had reminded him.

Credence had made a face at her. “You always make yours sound mostly the same,” he’d protested, because she did. He could practically recite the litany by now: utterly wretched morning sickness, first trimester exhaustion and the second trimester second wind and all that that entailed. That last bit was usually delivered with a smirk, if Percival was in the room, because Dindrane took an unholy level of joy from traumatizing her brother.

He’d expected the morning sickness, which seemed worse this time round and sent Percival into a near constant state of hovering. He hadn’t expected the cravings, having experienced virtually none of those the first time through.

What he craved most was Percival.

“Percival, please,” he begged.

“Again?” Percival asked, dropping his head to press kisses against Credence’s left shoulder blade.

Credence dragged Percival’s hand to his cock, which was still hard even though he’d just come. _“Yes.”_

“Fuck,” Percival groaned. “I’m going to need some desiderata at this rate.”

Credence liked that thought more than he should have. There was something intoxicating about the idea of Percival under the influence of desiderata, hard and wanting for as long as Credence wanted him to be. “Yes, please,” he said, kissing Percival’s surprised mouth.

“Fuck,” Percival said again. He started laughing, helpless and fond, and pressed Credence onto his back as he kissed him. “Alright, lovely. I’ll pick some up tomorrow. As for tonight…” He trailed off, giving Credence’s cock a lingering stroke. “How do you feel about fucking me?”

“Oh,” Credence said, breathless and dizzy with how much he wanted that. He liked what they did in bed together; liked the fullness and the stretch of Percival inside of him. He liked fucking Percival, too, even if he did worry that he couldn’t give Percival the same amount of pleasure Percival so effortlessly gave him. Percival had never seemed dissatisfied, though, mostly because Percival took pleasure from pleasing Credence. “Yes. Fuck.”

Percival straddled his hips and smirked down at him. “Have I reduced you to monosyllables already, my love?” he teased.

“Oh my God,” Credence said, which did not exactly disprove Percival’s point. “Why are you like this?”

“Charming?” Percival suggested, guiding Credence’s fingers inside of him.

Fuck. He’d forgotten how hot it felt to be inside of Percival, both figuratively and literally.

“Argumentative and mean,” Credence corrected, crooking his fingers and teasing the spot that made Percival writhe.

“Oh, _I’m_ the mean one,” Percival huffed. “You’re the one with your fingers on my prostate. I’m pretty sure my dick is done for the night, and you’re _teasing._ Have mercy on an old man.”

“Please,” Credence said. “Forty-two is not old. I’m starting to think you _like_ thinking of yourself as a dirty old man.”

Percival looked like he wanted to argue that point. Credence, well-versed in Percival’s habits as well as his delightfully filthy mind, rubbed a little harder at Percival’s prostate.

“Mean,” Percival said again, bending down to kiss him. He nudged Credence’s hand aside, sinking down on Credence’s cock.

“Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights,” Credence breathed. Percival was hot and tight around him, clenching down around his cock. He lost himself in the rhythm of their lovemaking, of Percival carefully riding him. Percival kept one broad, rough hand lightly pressed against the swell of Credence’s belly, his touch reverent and so full of love it made Credence want to weep.

Credence twined his fingers with Percival’s free hand, drawing Percival down for a kiss.

“I love your mouth,” he confessed.

“Oh?” Percival inquired.

“Mm. Yes. You could wear a hundred different faces, and I’d always know you by the way you kiss.”

“We could try that, if you wanted,” Percival suggested, ever eager to try things that might please Credence.

Credence laughed against his mouth. “Why? Your face is the one I love.”

Belatedly, Credence remembered his manners. He reached for Percival’s cock, surprised to find him soft.

“Percival, you’re not --”

“Told you I was probably done for the evening,” Percival said, smiling ruefully.

“Yes, but --” God, it wasn’t fair. He was _so close_ and Percival wasn’t getting anything out of it at all.

He must have said that last part out loud, because Percival frowned at him and ground down in slow, filthy circles that made both of them gasp.

“Says who?” Percival asked. “I like watching you take your pleasure,” he confided. “I like knowing that no one but me gets to touch you. That no one but me will ever have you like this, even though you’re beautiful and could have anyone but wanted. I like,” he added, quickening his pace, “feeling you spill inside of me. Fill me up, darling. Make me yours, Credence, please.”

Credence was not strong enough to resist such a command. He came with a breathless cry, slumping back against the mattress in blissful satiation.

“In a minute, when I can move, I am going to kiss you everywhere,” Credence promised.

Percival laughed as he got them separated, banishing the mess with a careless wave of his hand. “I don’t think I have another round in me,” he admitted.

“Not for sex,” Credence said, although he was willing to try if Percival was. “Just because I can.”

“That sounds nice,” Percival said drowsily, cuddling into Credence’s side. “Maybe in the morning?”

“Sure,” said Credence. “Any time you want.”


	20. New York, August 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Ellie, who is an amazing human/genius, not to mention the kind of commenter that writers would slay actual dragons for. I know I would. She mentioned being interested in seeing Graves and Credence's dinner at the Luminaria.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/173001862731/monday-comment-fic-because-why-not-written-for)

_New York, August 1927_

 

Percival was plotting something.

Worse yet, Percival was plotting something and he thought he was being _subtle_ about it.

“He’s plotting something,” he said mournfully.

Tina looked up from the dossier she’d been reviewing. “Senator Matthews?” she asked, frowning. Then she shrugged. “He’s a politician. I think plotting is kind of what they do.”

“You have a very sinister view of government,” Credence told her. “Which is ironic, given that you work for ours.”

“I have a realistic view of government,” countered Tina. “And anyway, most politicians are basically criminals, so it’s my duty as an Auror to be suspicious of them.”

“You think it’s your duty as an Auror to be suspicious of everyone,” Credence pointed out.

“Well,” Tina said. “Yes.” Her tone suggested she was having a hard time seeing why he felt the need to point that out.

Credence gave up. Aurors were naturally suspicious of everyone and everything. Tina was hardly unique in that regard.

Also, as someone who was currently deeply suspicious of his husband’s current machinations, Credence could hardly throw stones.

“I didn’t mean Senator Matthews,” he said. “I meant Percival.”

“Oh,” said Tina, making the complicated expression she got every time she had to think of Percival as anything other than her older, attractive-if-you-like-them-scowling and entirely sexless mentor. (The fact that Tina had once described Percival this way _to his face_ in front of the rest of their team remained one of Credence’s favorite memories. Win Hughes laughed so hard she cried, and Percival had been so outrageously affronted by the comment he could have been a one man Shakesperean tragedy.)

It was hard to describe, but Credence suspected the best way to sum it up was, _oh no_ with a side of _where is the nearest exit._

“Exactly,” Credence said.

“What kind of plotting?” Tina asked, because she was a good friend. “Work plotting or Romantic Gesture plotting?”

Credence flopped back onto the couch and stared at the ceiling. “Romantic Gesture,” he said, pronouncing the capital letters in funereal tones.

“Mercy Lewis,” muttered Tina, who had witnessed the aftermath of some of Percival’s previous Romantic Gestures. She reached over and patted his shoulder in commiseration. “You poor bastard.”

“Thanks,” Credence said, genuinely heartened by her support. Moments like this were the reason he loved Tina. She was a little bit awkward, sometimes, but always sincere. She reminded him a lot of Percival. Credence could have loved her for that, if he hadn’t already loved her so much just for being Tina.

“Want me to try and find out what he’s planning?” Tina asked.

Credence sat up again so he could look at her. “Would you?” he asked. He had not wanted to ask, because asking Tina to regard Percival as anything other than her entirely sexless mentor seemed cruel, but if she was offering ... 

“I’m not making any promises,” Tina warned him. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

Credence hugged her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

 

*

 

“Dinner,” Tina said two days later.

“Hm?” Credence asked. “I was thinking of roasting a chicken. I was going to bring dinner to Dorothy and Alex, actually. You’re welcome to join me, if you like.” Dorothy was supposed to give birth any day now, according to the Healers. Credence remembered how unwieldy his own body had felt at that point, how grateful he’d been to have Queenie and Jacob and Dorothy to help out with cooking and cleaning and just plain existing. He was happy to return the favor.

“No, thank you,” Tina said. “Also, I wasn’t asking about dinner. That’s what Graves is plotting.”

That made no sense.

“What?”

Tina shrugged. “He got a pigeon with the Luminaria’s logo on the envelope,” she explained. “I think it was a copy of the menu? So either Graves is planning on meeting a reporter from the _Ghost_ again --”

“He’d better not,” Credence said darkly. Adrienne Gallagher had written several follow-up articles about him and Percival. They hadn’t been flattering. Verity’s follow-up articles had been, but at this point, Credence was getting a little sick of seeing his own face in the papers.

“-- or whatever he’s plotting is a Romantic Gesture involving dinner.” Tina considered that. “Maybe he just wants to take you on a nice date?”

“Maybe,” said Credence. He wouldn’t have minded date night, if he was being honest. It was just that date night with Percival tended to spiral into Percival making outrageous Romantic Gestures, and was therefore not to be trusted.

“I wish someone would take _me_ to the Luminaria,” Tina sighed. “I hear it’s nice.”

Credence grinned at her. “Was there a specific someone?” he asked.

“I will shove you off that couch and sit on you,” Tina warned him. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“You wouldn’t,” Credence said. “I have a three month old baby. That would just be cruel.”

“You aren’t holding your three month old baby,” said Tina. “So do not tempt me, Credence Graves.”

Credence glanced over at Galahad’s bassinet. Galahad was sleeping peacefully, probably so he could keep Credence and Percival up until all hours later tonight.

Credence loved him impossibly.

“You can just admit you want Newt to take you on a date,” he said. “Or that you want to take Newt on a date, being a modern woman and all.”

“Augh,” said Tina, and shoved him off the couch.

“Ow, Tina, get off,” Credence protested, trying to squirm away.

Tina rucked up his shirt and pinched him in the side. “I warned you,” she said.

“You miss him,” Credence protested.

“What’s your point?” demanded Tina. She made good on her threat and sat on him, dragging one of the throw pillows off the couch so she could brandish it at him in a threatening manner.

“He misses you,” Credence told her.

“Did he say that?” Tina asked, momentarily distracted.

“There was subtext,” Credence said. Newt’s last rambling letter had not explicitly _said_ that he missed Tina, but Credence could read between the lines.

“Augh,” Tina said again, and shoved the pillow into his face.

Someone cleared his throat above them. 

“Shit,” said Tina.

“Indeed,” said Percival. “Care to explain why you’re sitting on my husband, Goldstein?”

Six months ago, Tina would have gone tomato colored and incoherent with embarrassment, still somewhat overawed by Percival. She probably would’ve tripped over Credence in her haste to get off of him.

Now, Tina stayed where she was. She did lift the pillow, though.

“Lesson in wizarding sibling dynamics, sir,” she said.

Percival’s eyebrows went up. “I see,” he said, in tones of one who clearly did not see at all.

“If he’s going to act like my annoying kid brother, I’m going to treat him like my annoying kid brother,” Tina translated.

“Ah,” said Percival. He crossed the living room to pluck Galahad -- still mercifully asleep -- out of his bassinet. “You may be an only child,” he told the baby.

“Hah,” Credence muttered. “We’ll see about that.”

“And on that note,” Tina said, releasing Credence. “I’ll see you at work, sir.”

“Huh,” said Percival. “Even tangential references to my sex life clear the room. Good to know.”

“Don’t be mean,” Credence said, getting up. “How was work?” he asked.

“Oh, work,” Percival said vaguely.

He was _so bad_ at being subtle. It was almost like he thought mentioning _anything_ about his day would arouse suspicion. Like Credence would somehow _know_ that he’d written Bellamy for a table at the Luminaria for some sort of ridiculous, over the top date night that would probably involve a good portion of the Luminaria’s menu.

“Oh, no,” Credence said, abruptly slotting all the puzzle pieces into place.

“Credence?” Percival asked, instantly concerned.

“Nothing,” yelped Credence. “It’s just -- there was something I was going to tell Tina, but I forgot. I’ll tell her later,” he said hastily.

“Right,” said Percival, still looking concerned.

“I should go start dinner,” Credence said. “I was going to take something to Dorothy and Alex.”

“Okay,” said Percival.

Credence fled for the safety of the kitchen.

It was entirely possible that they were _both_ terrible at being subtle.

 

*

 

Percival had made him a promise, back when they’d both been Mr. Grindelwald’s prisoners. _“When I get out of here -- when **we** get out of here -- I’m going to take you to dinner,”_ he’d said. _“Somewhere nice. The Luminaria, maybe. And then I’m going to order you one of everything on the menu, so you can find out what you like.”_

At the time, Credence had liked the thought of it -- of spending time with Percival in Percival’s world, because he hadn’t been a part of it, not then -- and of finally, finally having enough to eat. Mr. Grindelwald’s idea of adequate nutrition had been an improvement on Ma’s, but it hadn’t been enough to keep Percival from starving himself on half-rations trying to make sure Credence and their son got enough to eat. Dinner at the Luminaria was a fantasy, just like freedom and having magic. Credence hadn’t really _believed_ in it.

He should have. Percival kept his promises.

Even the promises that were clearly mad.

Credence was well aware of the fact that the Graves siblings had a different relationship with money than the rest of the world. He still couldn’t fathom what it was like to have so much of it that it wasn’t a concern, although he supposed that he technically _did,_ seeing as he was married to Percival. It wasn’t like Percival would begrudge him anything, regardless of the cost.

Credence didn’t know how not to worry about money. He had grown up with the knowledge that every penny had to be stretched as far as it could possibly go. Failing to do so meant the switch, or worse, his sisters’ hungry faces.

Ma’s priority had been her ministry. What little money they had was spent on paper and ink for their pamphlets in order to spread the good word, and then on food for the orphans, that there would always be people to spread it. Ma’s family came last, and ate from the same pot as the orphans did, the food watered down past recognition. Their faith would sustain them, Ma always said. They were doing God’s work.

What was faith to a child’s empty belly? Faith didn’t put food on their table. Even a handful of penny dragots would have done more, not that Credence would have known what to do with them if he’d had them, not then. Faith -- or fanaticism -- might’ve been enough to sustain Ma, but Credence and Chastity and Modesty had needed more tangible sustenance.

He wondered how long they could have eaten on what Percival wanted to spend on a single meal. A month? Two? Half a year? The dragot-to-dollar ratio was badly skewed in wizarding America’s favor; their currency was still made of real gold.

Credence paced the ground floor. For once, he found himself grateful for Galahad’s firm belief that no one ought to sleep through the night, because it gave him time to martial his thoughts. He and Percival usually traded off who got up and who didn’t, but Percival had meetings all day tomorrow and he couldn’t afford to sleep through them, no matter how much he probably wanted to.

It wasn’t just the waste of money that bothered him, Credence eventually concluded. Although that bothered him plenty. If Percival wanted to throw money around, there were plenty of better places he could do it. Between Queenie, Dorothy and Seraphina, Credence was familiar with every philanthropic organization wizarding America had to offer. They were _real_ philanthropic organizations, too. Nothing like Ma’s ministry. Percival had donated to all of them on Credence’s behalf. He probably wouldn’t hesitate to do so again, if Credence asked.

“I’m being foolish,” he sighed.

Galahad made a sleepy baby noise of contentment, happy just to be held and talked to now that his belly was full.

“I could just _talk_ to your father,” Credence continued. “Tell him why the idea upsets me.”

It wasn’t just the money. It was the food, too. If Percival really meant for Credence to try one of everything on the menu just to find out what he liked, how many of them would Credence be able to go back to? That was a lot of dishes going nearly untouched.

The waste didn’t sit right with Credence, who had grown up without and had that deprivation honed to a razor’s edge in Grindelwald’s prison. Grindelwald had controlled what they ate and when, to say nothing of how much.

How long would those wasted meals have lasted them? It had been eight months and Percival finally looked something close to healthy, rather than pared down and feral and starved.

“I could,” Credence said. “But then he’ll get that _look_ that means he’s angry and hurting because someone hurt _me_ before he even knew me and he couldn’t do anything to stop them. And it’s not like he can do anything about _that,_ but he _can_ shower me with outrageous gifts so I know that I’m loved and that I’ll never want for anything ever again.” He smiled, faintly. “Your father is very foolish sometimes,” he confided. “I have you, and I have him. Maybe someday you’ll have brothers and sisters, and maybe you won’t, but as long as I have both of you I have everything I want.” He smoothed a hand over Galahad’s dark hair and wondered how one heart could contain so much love. His felt like it might burst of it.

That was a much better thought to fall asleep to, for however long Galahad let him. Credence got Galahad settled back in his crib and slipped into bed next to Percival, who reached for him automatically, even in sleep. Credence fell asleep with Percival’s arm flung across his back like a shield.

He didn’t need grand gestures from Percival to feel loved. Not when he had so many little unconscious gestures that said the exact same thing.

I’ll tell him in the morning, Credence thought.

 

*

 

Morning brought a pigeon from Seraphina that made Percival swear up a blue streak.

“I forgot to tell you,” said Percival. “But I made plans for dinner. Wear that suit I like?”

“I am not going naked in public,” said Credence, trying to stall for time. He hadn’t broached anything with Percival yet. Hell, he hadn’t even figured out how to bring it up.

Percival snickered. “The dark grey one, you minx,” he said, bending down to give Credence a kiss that conveyed _exactly_ how much he liked the thought of Credence in his birthday suit in public.

Percival’s exhibitionist streak was not exactly a surprise to Credence. Percival seemed to spend an awful lot of time at Ilvermorny naked, according to Seraphina.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” said Percival. “No one will care if we bring Galahad.”

Credence made an incoherent noise of agreement, his brain somewhat melted by the kiss. By the time it was working properly again, there was no time to try and explain anything, because Percival was already gone.

Credence looked around the empty kitchen. Wizarding oaths did not seem strong enough to convey his frustration.

“Fuck,” he said.

 

*

 

Credence wore the grey suit. It seemed petty to deny Percival something that brought him so much pleasure, even if the thought of tonight’s dinner put an uncomfortable cramp in his belly.

Percival’s eyes went dark with pleasure as soon as he saw it. “You look ravishing,” he said.

“So do you,” Credence admitted.

Percival looked down at his suit. “You like this?” 

His suit was dark blue and tailored to fit him like a glove. His waistcoat was dark blue as well, picked through with gold thread in a pattern that reminded Credence of the enormous armillary spheres that hung from the ceiling of the Great Library of MACUSA. His shirt was pale lavender, likely meant to coordinate with whatever Seraphina was wearing.

The whole ensemble sent a frisson of lust down Credence’s spine. It was entirely at odds with the uncomfortable cramps in his belly, and the resulting emotional conflict probably would have given poor Queenie a headache.

“You’re wearing it,” Credence said. “Of course I do.”

“You do know how to flatter a man’s ego. Come on. I got us a car from the motorcade this evening. You can drive, if you like.”

Credence narrowed his eyes. That was just cheating and Percival knew it.

“Are you trying to distract me from something, husband?” he inquired.

Percival twitched guiltily. “Would I do that?” he asked, offering up the car keys.

“Yes,” Credence said, snatching up the keys.

Driving was still Credence’s favorite mode of transportation. Apparition no longer upset his stomach, but Apparating with a baby as young as Galahad only resulted in an upset, screaming baby, so Credence really didn’t see the point. Also, he didn’t have his Apparition license yet, so it wasn’t like he was allowed to anyway. He had two perfectly good legs and the ability to use No-Maj buses and cabs; what did he need Apparition for?

The protective spells on MACUSA’s fleet of cars had been completely overhauled in the wake of Grindelwald’s escape attempt. Credence felt them hum to life, practically singing as he slid into the buttery leather seats, cool to the touch from the evening air. He could have driven one into a wall at thirty miles an hour and still walked out unharmed, so Credence wasn’t worried about Galahad’s safety. He followed Percival’s directions to the Luminaria, parking on the street outside as neatly as any No-Maj could have managed.

“Percival,” he began, utterly wretched. Percival was trying to do something _nice._ It was ungrateful of him not to appreciate that.

Percival caught his hand and pressed a kiss to Credence’s scarred palm. “Trust me?”

Something in Credence uncoiled at that. He could trust Percival. He _always_ trusted Percival. Trusting Percival was the easiest thing in the world to do.

“Always,” he said.

“Then let’s go in,” Percival said, pressing a kiss to the back of Credence’s hand this time. He let it go and got out of the car, Galahad cradled carefully in his arms.

“Director Graves,” the witch who ran the front of the Luminaria greeted Percival. She beamed at Credence. “And Mr. Graves.”

“Hello, Deirdre,” Percival said warmly. “I don’t think I got a chance to formally introduce you to my husband, the last time we were here.”

“You had other things on your mind,” Deirdre said, so blandly she could’ve given Mr. Ramirez a run for his money.

“Merlin and Morgana,” Credence muttered. He and Percival had made rather a spectacle of themselves, the last time they were here. At the time, he hadn’t really cared, and Bellamy had said that he hadn’t minded when Credence sent him a letter apologizing, but maybe Credence ought to have sent one to the rest of the Luminaria’s staff as well.

“No excuse for bad manners,” Percival said gravely. “Deirdre, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to my husband, Credence Graves. Credence, I’d like you to meet Deirdre Reynolds. She’s Bellamy’s right hand woman, and runs the front of the house. She’s who to speak to if you want something done.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Credence said, offering her his hand.

Deirdre shook it firmly. “And I you, Mr. Graves,” she said. “Shall I show you to your table?”

“Thank you, Deirdre,” said Percival.

Deirdre led them into a private dining room, where an enormous table was set up with one of everything on the Luminaria’s menu.

“Oh,” said Credence, stopping short at the sight of the people sitting around the table.

Practically everyone he knew was already seated at the table. Seraphina, dressed to the nines in the same shade of lavender as Percival, laughing over a champagne flute of gigglewater. All of Percival’s team was present, with the exception of Alex and Dorothy who were at home with their brand new daughter. Credence was glad to see Mr. Summersea and his wife as well as Win Hughes. He was even more glad for Queenie and Tina, who had clearly come from work and transfigured their ordinary clothing into sparkling frocks. They looked like an art deco rendition of the goddesses of night and day, dark and fair as they were. There was an empty seat next to Queenie that was probably meant for Jacob. Credence wondered where he’d gone.

He felt foolish for wondering that a second later. It was a safe bet that if there was a kitchen nearby, Jacob would charm his way into it. He couldn’t help himself.

“I thought you might like this better,” Percival confided, voice pitched low and for Credence’s ears alone. “I never meant to upset you.”

Credence turned around so Percival wouldn’t see him blinking back tears. Ridiculous, foolish man, he thought, heart so full of love it hurt. If someone had told him, a year ago, that Credence would find someone who loved him enough to take such care, Credence would have assumed that they were lying to him.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“Galahad told me,” Percival said, with a besotted look at their son. “Also Ramirez, Goldstein, Goldstein the Younger, Seraphina and Dorothy.” He made a face. “I suspect Dindrane and Robert might’ve added to the _I told you so’s,_ if I hadn’t already changed the reservation.”

“Not our fault you’re unobservant,” Mr. Ramirez noted, stealing Galahad out of Percival’s arms and carrying him off for Seraphina to coo over. “Hello, Galahad,” he said solemnly.

“I’m the _Head of MLE,”_ Percival said, indignant.

“Aurors can be remarkably unobservant,” Seraphina pointed out. She cuddled Galahad.

“I don’t think it’s that they’re unobservant, really,” Dindrane said thoughtfully, coming up to kiss Credence’s cheek. “So much as possessed of some very singular blind spots.”

“Mama,” Lance said, tugging at Dindrane’s skirt. “Make _Tia_ Sera let me hold the baby.”

“Wait your turn, _mijo,”_ Dindrane said.

“Did you come all the way from Boston just for dinner?” Credence asked.

“You say that like Boston isn’t a quick Portkey from New York,” Dindrane teased. “And I wanted to see my nephew.”

“Good luck getting ahold of him,” Robert said, as warm and amused as always. “Come here, _mijo._ Take your seat.”

“It isn’t fair that _Tia_ Sera gets to hog Galahad,” Lance sulked. “He’s my cousin. And he’s going to be _my_ squire! _Tio_ Credence said so.”

“Both of you need to get a bit bigger and stronger before you can become knights,” Robert told him. “Which means dinner. Now scoot.”

“But Papa!”

“You’ll get your turn,” Robert assured him.

Credence looked around the room again. “Did you invite everyone we know to dinner?” he asked.

“Well, not _everyone,”_ said Percival. “But I thought it would be nice to have dinner with family.”

Credence kissed him, uncaring of who might be watching. The kiss went on for so long he was dizzy with it.

Someone -- Credence strongly suspected Win -- was wolf-whistling.

Percival made a rude gesture without letting go of Credence, which got him smacked by his sister.

“I love you,” Credence said.

“I love you, too,” said Percival. He turned back to their family and grinned. “Thank you all for coming to dinner,” he said. “The only rule tonight is Credence gets to try anything he wants. Other than that, dig in.” He took a seat at the head of the table, with Credence at his right as the guest of honor.

“I should get Galahad’s pram,” Credence said, pulling Galahad’s magically shrunken pram from his pocket. “So we can eat.”

“I don’t think we’ll lack for people to hold him,” Percival pointed out, dryly.

“Here,” Tina said, before Credence could unshrink it. She held a fork out to Credence. “Try this. It’s _delicious.”_ She shoved it unceremoniously into Credence’s mouth before he could protest, or even ask what it was. Tina took her duties as Credence’s irritating older sister figure seriously.

“Oh, wow,” Credence said.

“Right?” Tina asked, beaming. “The food here is _amazing.”_

“Want to try mine next?” asked Queenie.

Credence looked around the table. A good meal in good company was never wasteful. Jacob had taught him that.

“I want to try _everything,”_ he said.


	21. Graves Manor, April 1934

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment fic for the fabulous MadImagination, who found one of my nerdy easter eggs and wanted to see Percival being a good dad who is ridiculously in love with his husband. I hope this suits. ;)
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/173268537286/tuesday-comment-fic-the-fabulous-madimagination)

_Graves Manor, April 1934_

 

Credence woke up and found Percival’s side of the bed empty. He ran a hand across the mattress and found it cold. Percival had been up for awhile.

Yawning, he padded down the hall to the nursery. Percival was probably asleep in the rocking chair with Ellie, which he would probably regret tomorrow.

Elaine was asleep in her crib, as was Gawain. Percival was nowhere to be seen.

Puzzled, now, Credence went back out into the hall. There was a light on in one of the unused rooms in the family wing, past Galahad and Olwen’s rooms. They’d decided it would be Gawain’s, once he was big enough to leave the nursery. He wasn’t quite old enough yet, but Credence still felt a pang at the thought. His babies were growing up so _fast._

“Percival?” Credence asked around a yawn. “What are you doing up? It’s three in the morning.”

“Merlin and Morgana!” Percival yelped, the pencil in his hand skittering wildly across the wall.

Credence blinked at him. He wasn’t awake enough for this.

“How much coffee have you had?” he asked, suspicious.

“Eh,” said Percival, clearly stalling for time. “A bit.” He glared at the line he’d accidentally drawn, then made it vanish with a careless flick of his fingers. “You startled me, love,” he said, tucking his pencil behind his ear and reaching for Credence.

He looked, Credence thought, like one of Queenie and Jacob’s artist friends. Percival was shirtless, as was his habit, his soft sleeping pants slung low on his hips. His hair stuck up in random tufts, free of its usual pomade until morning. Percival looked about as far from severe, serious Director Graves as it was possible to get.

He looked like Credence’s husband instead.

Credence loved Percival in the small hours of the night, and the evenings after work. The times just for him, or for the kids. No one else got to see Percival like this, all his hard edges tucked away.

“You should be sleeping,” Credence chided, leaning in to kiss him.

“So should you,” Percival countered.

“We could both go back to bed,” Credence suggested. He wrapped his arms around Percival’s neck, pressed close enough to Percival that there would be no doubt as to his intentions.

“Yes, dear,” Percival said, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

 

*

 

Everyone said that Percival took after his father, just like everyone said that Galahad took after Percival. Dindrane, everyone agreed, was the one who took after their mother.

Having finally met the portrait of Geraint Graves, Credence could see why everyone thought so. Percival had Geraint’s devotion to MACUSA; to duty. He had Geraint’s unyielding sense of honor, his determination to stand between their people and anything or anyone who might mean them harm. Being an Auror was who Geraint and Percival were. It was in their blood.

Vivian’s influence was harder to spot, but it was still there. Percival had inherited her love of stories as well as her knack for telling them, and he’d gotten her artistic talents as well. Little sketches littered his notes to Credence, his letters to his niece and nephews at Ilvermorny, and occasionally even during the margins of his paperwork during especially boring meetings.

“It’s just marginalia,” Percival had said dismissively, the first time Credence asked about it. He’d found a sketch of himself on the back of a memo about properly filling out requisitions forms when Galahad was about six months old. He hadn’t realized that Percival could draw before that.

“It’s beautiful,” Credence had insisted. “You never told me you could draw.”

Percival had shoved the sketch in his desk. “It’s nothing,” he’d said, but the little sketches started cropping up after that.

“So,” Credence said, sprawled over Percival’s chest and listening to Percival’s heartbeat gradually return to normal. His own heartbeat and his breathing weren’t quite back to normal yet either, for all that he felt boneless with satiation.

“Mm?” Percival asked, toying with Credence’s hair.

“What did you decide on?” Credence asked.

Percival had painted both Galahad and Olwen’s rooms, once they were old enough to leave the nursery. Galahad’s room was decorated with different kinds of dragons, their anatomy drawn with painstaking correctness after months of correspondence with Newt. Olwen’s room was a forest, and every now and again a wampus cat would peek through the trees.

“Thunderbirds, I think,” Percival said.

Credence hummed thoughtfully. “We can go to Tucson and visit Frank,” he said. Percival could get all the thunderbird sketches he wanted, and Credence could visit Penelope Ramirez and stock up on more stories from Marco and Seraphina and Percival’s Ilvermorny years. He wanted to know what to expect when Galahad was old enough.

Hopefully Galahad’s time at Ilvermorny would involve less nudity than his father’s. Credence had several utterly mortifying stories stockpiled just to make sure Galahad was too embarrassed to even _think_ of trying half of the ridiculous stunts Percival had pulled.

“It’ll be a nice family vacation,” agreed Percival. “I can get the sky painted before we go.”

Credence cuddled a bit more aggressively into Percival’s side, just in case Percival was thinking of getting up again. “Stay,” he mumbled. “It’s not the same without you.”

“Anything for you,” Percival said fondly, not making any effort to get out of bed at all. Credence fell asleep to the gentle sweep of Percival’s hand down his back, a subtle reminder that he was here and that Percival would always keep him safe.

He woke up that way the next morning, safe and protected and loved.


	22. Picquery House, March 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is technically two timestamps in one, because otherwise it would be very short. Also, they both concern Credence in Georgia, so I figured I might as well stick them in one place.
> 
> The first one is for the delightful MadImagination, and was originally posted [on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/174252420611/friday-comment-fic-i-hope-you-all-have-exciting)
> 
> The second is for the amazing [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yukinojo14/pseuds/Yukinojo14>Yukinojo14,</a>%20who%20mentioned%20that%20they%20wanted%20to%20see%20Credence%20get%20a%20wand.%20%20I%20hope%20this%20doesn't%20disappoint.%0A%0AAlso,%20apparently%20I%20have%20a%20lot%20of%20feels%20about%20wands%20and%20wizarding%20worldbuilding.%20%20Come%20talk%20nerdy%20to%20me.%20%20<a%20href=)

**Written for MadImagination**

_Credence and Ramirez, BroTP._

 

“Would you like some lemonade?” Credence asked, offering Ramirez one of the glasses he held. “Grandmama said you liked it better than sweet tea.”

Ramirez wiped his hands off on a rag and accepted the glass. “Thank you,” he said.

Credence smiled shyly at him and sipped his own lemonade. “What are you doing?” he asked, gesturing to the car. “Is there something wrong?”

“I’m just doing a bit of maintenance. Genevieve doesn’t like the local mechanic.”

Ramirez didn’t like the local mechanic either, mostly because the closest one was a racist No-Maj who thought a colored woman had no business owning a car.

One of these days, Ramirez was going to go explain the error of the man’s ways. He was really looking forward to that.

Credence looked surprised. “I didn’t know that was Grandmama’s car,” he admitted. “I thought it was one of MACUSA’s.”

“The one we took to get here was,” Ramirez explained. “This one is Genevieve’s.” It was an easy mistake to make if you didn’t know cars.

“Why does Grandmama have a car?” Credence wondered. “Can’t she just --?” he made a vague gesture towards the wand in his pocket.

“Cars make more sense in the country than they do in the city,” Ramirez pointed out. “There’s farther to travel.”

“But everyone out here is a wizard.”

“Not everyone,” Ramirez said absently, sipping his lemonade. That was Grandmama’s business, though.

Credence frowned at him.

It was probably time to change the subject. “Would you like me to teach you how to drive now?” he asked.

Credence’s whole face lit up. “Yes, please!”

 

**Written for yukinojo14**

_Credence gets a wand._

 

“Let me see you hands, child,” Mrs. Violetta said.

Credence folded his hands in his lap beneath the table, hunching around them defensively. He wasn’t even aware of wanting to do it; it was just reflex.

Mrs. Violetta gave him a calm look. She sipped her sweet tea and waited patiently.

Ma never waited patiently. Ma would hold her hand out, imperious, waiting for him to pass his belt over and hold out his hands for his punishment.

Mrs. Violetta was nothing like Ma.

Credence rested both of his hands on the table between them, cautiously uncurling his fingers.

Mrs. Violetta grasped his right hand in hers, drawing it closer. She studied his palm for a long moment, something ancient in her dark eyes. She didn’t say anything about his scars, which Credence appreciated.

Mrs. Marie peered down her nose at Mrs. Violetta. “What are you doing, Etta?”

“Superstitious nonsense!” said Mrs. Grace. “Tell me you aren’t reading that boy’s palm.”

“Of course she is,” said Mrs. Poppy. “And why shouldn’t she? Boy’s got a real nice future ahead of him.”

“I do?” Credence asked.

“Course you do,” Mrs. Poppy assured him. She pointed at one of the lines on his palm. “That right there says you got the loving of a good man.”

“Anyone with eyes can see that, Poppy,” Mrs. Marie said impatiently.

Mrs. Grace tsked at her. “Don’t be vulgar, Marie,” she said.

Mrs. Marie scowled at her. “Who’s being vulgar? Anyone with eyes can see he’s in love.”

“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Poppy said, entirely too knowingly for Credence’s peace of mind.

“May I have my hand back now?” he asked, a little desperately. “Please?”

“Stop embarrassing my grandson,” Grandmama said sharply. “And leave Etta be. She’s working.”

“Working,” Mrs. Grace snorted. “Indulging in superstitious nonsense, more like.”

“Grace never could read palms,” Mrs. Poppy told Credence. “She’s always been a bit jealous of Etta.”

“Jealous!” squawked Mrs. Grace.

“Out!” said Mrs. Violetta. “I can’t work with all of you squawking like hens.”

A look from Grandmama silenced the rest of the coven.

“Fine,” sniffed Mrs. Marie. “We’ll just take our tea out on the veranda.”

“You do that,” said Grandmama, herding the coven out the door.

“Can you really read my palm?” Credence asked.

“After a fashion,” Mrs. Violetta said. “No wandmaker worth their salt will sell a wand to someone unworthy. Wands are meant to be passed down through a family, bound in power and blood. My granddaddy taught me never to sell a wand to a hand I didn’t know, and my grandmama taught me to read them.” She traced her index finger down the curve of his palm between his index finger and his thumb. “You could’ve taken a different path, but something put you on this one instead.” She looked troubled. There was something about the path he hadn’t taken that worried her. 

“What else do you see?” he asked. He couldn’t really see anything. Just lines and scars -- nothing special.

“Love,” she said. “Deep and true. You don’t know how to love any other way than with your whole heart. Power, too, not that I’d expect anything less for one of Genevieve’s. Power and the heart to temper it. You’ll do.” Mrs. Violetta nodded briskly. “Yes, you’ll do nicely.”

Credence wondered what, exactly, Mrs. Violetta thought he’d do, but he was a little afraid to ask. Mostly, he admitted to himself, because Mrs. Violetta would answer. The coven was terrifyingly direct.

Mrs. Violetta let go of his hand and set a bundle of silk on the table between them. She unrolled it to reveal a line of wands tucked into neatly stitched pockets, separated with runes stitched in gold thread. “A Beauvais wand is made of swamp mayhaw,” she told him. “Always. No exceptions. Swamp mayhaw’s just what a wizard like yourself needs.”

“I’m not sure what kind of wizard I am yet,” Credence said, eyes glued to the neat line of wands. He wanted one with an awful, dizzying yearning -- more than he’d ever wanted anything, except to be part of Percival’s world.

He hadn’t even known how badly he’d wanted one until right this second.

“Strong,” said Mrs. Violetta. “Stronger than you know. Swamp mayhaw likes strength, and they’re not afraid of Dark magic.”

“I don’t want to use Dark magic,” Credence said, alarmed. He wondered what else Mrs. Violetta had seen in his palm, for her to even think that was a possibility.

“I didn’t say you would, now did I?” she asked impatiently. “Just that swamp mayhaw isn’t afraid of it. You shouldn’t be, either. You’re a Graves, boy.”

Credence set his jaw. “I’m not afraid,” he said firmly. No one was ever going to make him afraid ever again. No one was ever going to make his son feel afraid either.

“Good,” said Mrs. Violetta, and set a wand in his hand.

Credence curled his fingers around it automatically, marveling at how right it felt in his hand. He’d only ever practiced defensive spells with a wand, so he wasn’t sure what spell to try first.

_“Lumos,”_ he whispered, tracing the shape he usually made with his mind.

“Oh my,” Mrs. Violetta said, when half the room went blindingly bright and burst into flame. _“Aguamenti!”_

Later, after the rest of the coven had come running back inside and the portraits had been suitably pacified, Mrs. Violetta asked, “How in Tituba’s name did no one guess you were a wizard before now?”

Credence blinked at her. “Mr. Grindelwald said I had enormous reserves, but that I had no way to use them.” He curled his fingers around his wand, possessive. “Mr. Grindelwald was wrong about that.”

Grandmama Genevieve gave a haughty sniff. “Never you mind anything that bad mannered German upstart had to say, child. That man wouldn’t know magic if it bit him on his lily white ass.”

“I really don’t want to think about Mr. Grindelwald’s ass,” Credence muttered. “I’m so, so sorry about the sitting room. I had no idea I could do that.”

“Never you mind that, either,” Grandmama told him. “Strong magic’s nothing to be ashamed of or apologize for.”

“Are renovations?” Credence wondered. “Because it feels like I ought to apologize for that.”

“You should!” hollered one of the portraits.

“I will silence you,” Grandmama warned. She gave Credence a crooked smile that made her look _exactly_ like her granddaughter. “Remind me to tell you about the time Seraphina blew up the potions lab at Ilvermorny.”

“Or the time she and Percival vanished the glass roads during the Harvest Parade,” said Violetta.

“Or the time Marco used one of Seraphina’s beaus for target practice.”

“Leave me out of this, please,” said Mr. Ramirez.

“Or the time Marco tried to use Percival for target practice,” Mrs. Poppy continued.

“In my defense,” Mr. Ramirez told Credence, “it was Percival’s fault. He asked.”

“Of course he did,” sighed Credence. He felt a little better, though. Piquery House had seen greater misadventures than his and it was still standing. “How did Seraphina blow up the potions lab at Ilvermorny?”

“Well,” Mrs. Marie allowed. “It wasn’t the _whole_ potions lab.” She poured a fresh glass of sweet tea and gestured expansively. “It was the fall of 1901…”


	23. The Woolworth Building, June 1946

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the incredible [female_overlord_3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/female_overlord_3/pseuds/female_overlord_3) who wanted to see the terrible babyfic I'd complained about in the last chapter of Improbable, but I'd already sacrificed it to the void, so I wrote this instead.
> 
> Galahad joins the Aurors as the next Graves in MACUSA. 
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/174712245826/friday-comment-fic-im-almost-to-the-end-of-what)

_The Woolworth Building, June 1946_

 

Dad had warned him that it would be weird, working for MACUSA.

“You are my son, and I will always, _always_ love and be proud of you,” he’d said. “But I can’t be your father at work. I have to be your boss.”

“I know,” Galahad had told him. “I don’t want any special favors because I’m your son. I want to earn my place at MACUSA.”

Dad had smiled at that. “You remind me of your Papa, sometimes,” he’d said, the highest compliment Dad knew how to give. “And you’re going to be even better at this than I am.”

“I’m going to enjoy proving you right, old man.”

“Old man! Is that how it is, you little punk?”

“Yeah,” Galahad had said, grinning. “That’s how it is.”

Galahad could handle separating Dad from Director Graves, just like he could handle separating the uncles and the aunties from Deputy Director Summersea, Head of Major Investigations Collins, and Senior Investigating Auror Hughes. Sam said that the amount of dissociating he did at work was mentally unhealthy, but she had no room to talk because she was also training with someone who had _literally changed her nappies,_ and knew full well how fucking awkward it was.

Still. He wasn’t prepared for what a _complete and utter bastard_ Director Graves could be when he wanted to.

“I thought he’d go soft on you, ‘cause you’re his kid,” Isaac Potter said. “But you’re actually getting it twice as bad, aren’t you?”

Isaac was one of the good ones. Out of everyone in their training group, he was the one Galahad could see himself working well with in the future. It helped that he was descended from the Twelve, too. Isaac understood what that was like, because he’d grown up with it just like Galahad had.

“What’s the matter,” Jackson Williams sneered. “Can’t handle a little scolding from daddy?”

“My friend, I do not think you understand what a fundamentally bad idea it is to bait the person who might be your sparring partner at dueling practice tomorrow. Or have you forgotten how Graves-style duels usually go?” Isaac asked.

Jackson sneered some more. “Some of us prefer not to fight like fucking savages.”

“And some of us prefer to survive,” Galahad told him. He ran a hand through his hair. Part of him wanted to go confront Dad, and part of him recognized that was a _monumentally_ bad idea. He’d look like a little kid who couldn’t handle it when things got hard.

“Yeah, you’re so fucking special.”

Galahad gritted his teeth. He couldn’t afford to haul off and punch Jackson, no matter how much he wanted to. He wasn’t a kid at Ilvermorny anymore. He was nineteen and a man grown.

“I’m not special. I’m a junior Auror, just like you. And I’d much rather _all_ of us lived.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” asked Jackson.

“It means that I’ll teach you how to ‘fight like a fucking savage,’ if you want,” Galahad offered. “You can’t honestly tell me you’ve never thought about punching me in the face.”

“The thought is strangely appealing,” Jackson admitted.

“Training room three, tomorrow before work?”

“There’s no way this is going to end well,” Isaac predicted.

Galahad gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder. “Relax,” he said. “I have it on excellent authority that punching people in the face is just how my family makes friends.”


	24. The Woolworth Building, September 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the very kind gehulye, who thought Graves and Credence deserved a chance to show Galahad off after the end of Improbable. I agreed, and then this happened.
> 
> Galahad Graves meets MACUSA's ice queen.
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr [here](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/174838936136/comment-fic-because-its-tuesday-and-i-feel-like)

_The Woolworth Building, September 1927_

 

“That is … that is a baby.”

Graves shifted Galahad to his shoulder so he could burp him. “Well spotted,” he said dryly. “With keen observational skills like that, you might consider a career with the Aurors.”

Helmine Weiss scowled at him. “Why do you have a baby in your office, Graves?”

Graves frowned at her. “Because I have a baby. I assumed you knew that. You sent a gift.”

Weiss’ expression strongly suggested she wanted to hex him and couldn’t, because he was holding a baby.

“You’re the _Director of Magical Security._ You can’t keep a baby in your office!”

“Keep your voice down,” Graves hissed. “Shouting upsets him.”

Weiss just stared at him. Graves had no idea why she was having so much trouble with Galahad’s general existence. He knew for a fact that Weiss had several nieces and nephews of her own. Surely she had to have encountered babies at some point before this.

“My husband is busy kicking the Congress’ ass up and down the Pentagram Chamber,” Graves said. “Galahad’s just visiting with me for the next hour, after which I’m assuming Seraphina’s going to kidnap him. If his presence is going to distract you, we can reschedule, but I promise he’s too little to remember anything we talk about.”

Weiss considered that. “May I hold him?”

Graves blinked at her.

Weiss made a scoffing noise. “Contrary to what you Aurors believe, I don’t actually eat babies for breakfast.”

“No one thinks that,” Graves told her. “Babies would make terrible breakfast. We _might_ speculate on what you eat for dinner, though.” He passed Galahad over anyway. Galahad liked new people, and gave Weiss a gummy smile and a happy squeal.

“He’s beautiful,” Weiss said. “I assume he takes after your husband.”

Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights. MACUSA’s Ice Queen had just made a _joke._

“Hopefully,” said Graves, not joking at all. He liked the thought of Galahad with all of Credence’s sweetness, and his kind heart.

He hadn’t counted on just how weird it would be to try and have a meeting with Weiss while she made silly faces at his son, but at least Galahad’s presence kept them both civil.

Maybe he’d have to take Galahad to all his meetings.

Seraphina would probably object to that. If she couldn’t use her godson as a diversion during meetings, Graves wouldn’t be allowed to either.

“Galahad is going to grow up and be a heartbreaker,” Graves told Credence.

Credence swung Galahad up into his arms and pressed adoring kisses to their son’s face. “Did someone else fall in love with you?” he asked Galahad.

“He charmed the hell out of Weiss,” Graves told him.

“Swear jar,” Credence said absently. “Wait. I thought you and Weiss didn’t get along.”

“Personally, we don’t. Professionally … it’s complicated. Having Galahad here helped.”

“Our son is pretty great,” Credence said.

“Yeah,” Graves agreed. “He really is.”


	25. The Eyrie, March 1947

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the incredible goddess of art [st00pz.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st00pz/pseuds/st00pz) Based on the comment: _Also Galahad’s growing up to be a carbon copy of Graves so I imagine Weiss sometimes commenting offhandedly along the line of “you were SO cute when you were small, and then the Graves gene kicked in” everytime she met him in MACUSA (maybe when he’s an Auror lol)._
> 
> Because yeeeesss I am so here for Galahad's assorted MACUSA aunties and uncles giving him shit as an adult.
> 
> Originally posted [on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/175027411801/happy-monday-guys-i-hope-it-was-less-monday-ish)
> 
> So, this is the second to last timestamp that was written in the comments of Improbable. (Or posted on tumblr as Improbable was being written/posted.) I'll start a second volume of timestamps from the stuff that got written in the comments of this fic. Anyone have any thoughts on titles? Should I change out of the date format and go for actually naming things?

_The Eyrie, March 1947_

 

“You seem awfully calm,” Red noted.

Galahad raised both eyebrows at him. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“Most Aurors in your shoes are puking scared or pissed as hell right about now,” Red pointed out, easing the elevator to a stop. He kept the elevator doors closed, waiting for Galahad’s answer. “She ain’t going to go easy on youse.”

“I know,” Galahad said. “I don’t want her to.”

“Your funeral,” Red told him, and opened the doors.

Galahad stepped out into the Eyrie, heading for the great double doors that lead to the Eagle’s Chamber. They swung open just before he reached them, admitting Galahad into the room beyond.

Galahad understood why most Aurors hated the Eyrie. Like most of the audience chambers in the Woolworth Building, the room was bigger on the inside than mere architecture should have allowed for. Enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows lined the walls through the whole room, giving the impression that the Eyrie was exactly what it was named for -- an eagle’s nest high up on a cliffside, surrounded by nothing but the open sky beneath it. Galahad could practically feel the bite of cold air at mountain altitudes kiss his skin, the wisps of clouds and mist floating by.

Galahad walked along the black marble path leading towards the dais and the woman who ruled the Eyrie. The seats to either side of hers were empty, save for a court stenographer tucked discreetly off to one side.

Age had not slowed Director Weiss down one bit. Her blonde hair had long since gone silver, but her winter-pale eyes were as cold and sharp as ever. She reminded Galahad of Dad’s stories about the sidhe -- Director Weiss was winter court, through and through, cold and dangerous and terrifying.

But fair, Galahad thought. Not always impartial, but scrupulously, meticulously, terrifyingly fair.

That was a sidhe trait, too. Not for the first time, Galahad wondered if Director Weiss had a touch of the old blood, in addition to being one of the Twelve.

He stopped some ten or so feet away from the dais, coming to stand at rest before MACUSA’s Ice Queen.

“Galahad Graves,” Director Weiss said. Her voice was clear and cold, cutting through the silence like a knife. “You stand accused of disobey direct orders from a senior officer in the field.”

Galahad ground his teeth and said nothing. It wasn’t his turn to speak yet.

“Your team was recently seconded for a joint international task force, under the direction of Auror Ethan Concannon, was it not?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Galahad said, resisting the urge to curse at the mere mention of Fucking Concannon. “The Canadians had point on the investigation. Auror Concannon was Senior Investigating Auror for the task force.”

“What was the purpose of the task force?”

There were days when Galahad really despised MACUSA’s love of bureaucratic minutia. Surely anyone who wanted to know why he’d been called to the Eyrie already knew what the joint task force had been doing.

“Investigating an illegal magical beasts distribution ring,” Galahad answered. “Waheela, specifically.” He was just glad Uncle Newt had his hands full battling England’s Wizengamot over werewolf rights, or he’d have had more problems than just Fucking Concannon to deal with.

Uncle Newt didn’t share Uncle Theseus’ fondness for explosions, but they still happened around him an awful lot anyways.

“Auror Concannon accuses you of disobey direct orders, of jeopardizing the mission by redirecting mission assets, and worst of all, of suborning your fellow Aurors.”

Galahad snorted.

“Does mutiny amuse you, Auror Graves?” Director Weiss asked.

“No, ma’am,” Galahad said. “It does not.”

“Then what, exactly, amuses you so?”

“Auror Concannon’s version of events, ma’am,” Galahad said.

Weiss looked down at the papers in front of her on the dais. “Your version reads rather differently,” she noted.

“Yes, ma’am,” agreed Galahad, because it did.

“I note that it does not, at any point, dispute the charge regarding disobeying direct orders from a senior Auror.”

“No, ma’am.”

Director Weiss considered him for a long moment. “The punishment for that is two weeks suspension without pay.”

Galahad hid a wince. He wanted to buy Sam’s bridegift with his own funds, not draw on the Graves family vault. Two weeks without pay would set him back a bit.

“I know, ma’am,” he said. “It’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

“So be it,” she said. “Leave your badge with Director Graves.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Bishoff. That will be all,” Director Weiss told the stenographer, who gathered up her things and left. She waited until Bishoff had gone before she folded her arms across her chest and said, “What the _hell,_ Galahad?”

Galahad set his jaw, stubborn.

“I know you know better than this,” she said. “You could have caused an international incident!”

Director Graves had said something similar. Bellowed, actually.

“Concannon’s a fucking moron,” Galahad said, resisting the urge to yell. Yelling at department heads rarely did any good.

“There are plenty of morons in the world. A good number of them will be your superiors. The correct way of dealing with them _does not_ include going rogue, taking over the op and deciding you only follow orders if you feel like it!”

“His plan would’ve gotten half his team and all of mine killed,” Galahad said flatly. “Have you _looked_ at Concannon’s mission history? The only reason he’s been promoted is because he’s related to the Canadian Minister. The man is a vainglorious jackass.”

“Concannon’s mission history is irrelevant.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it really isn’t. I talked to his Aurors before I looked into his mission history. He’s got the highest rate of injury in his division.” Galahad clenched his jaw. It wasn’t his place to tell the Canadians how to run their operations, but he was a Graves. He had a duty to protect his people, no matter what the cost. “The Canadians might be content to let him do whatever he wants, but I’m not going to stand by and watch while he gets my teammates killed just to advance his career!”

“Even at the expense of your own?” Weiss demanded.

_“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,”_ Galahad reminded her. Weiss was one of the Twelve. She knew what it meant to grow up with those words carved bone deep. “Sometimes we get killed in the line of duty. That’s the job. But that doesn’t mean our lives are coin to be spent so cheaply.”

Weiss sighed. “I know,” she said. “I _did_ look at Concannon’s mission history. Graves never should’ve agreed to the joint task force.”

“He didn’t want to,” Galahad said. “Trust me.”

Weiss was too dignified to make faces, but Galahad got the impression she would have rolled her eyes if she could have. “Yes, yes. The Director of Magical Security does not dictate international policy,” she said, in a perfect imitation of Dad.

“Telling people to fuck off isn’t a great international policy,” Galahad agreed.

Weiss snorted. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

“Can you blame him?”

Weiss ignored that, which meant that she agreed with him. She was never, ever going to say so, though, because she and Dad didn’t exactly get along professionally. They were fine with one another personally, but Aurors and the Eyrie were never going to see eye to eye.

She descended from the dais, her movements smooth and predatory despite her age. Helmine Weiss was not a witch to be trifled with.

Galahad offered her his arm.

Weiss took it, one corner of her mouth quirking up in a faint smile. Up close, MACUSA’s Ice Queen barely came up to his shoulder. It was strange, realizing that such a terrifying figure was so tiny.

“You used to be so cute, you know,” she complained. It was a frequent complaint, good-natured and teasing. Galahad had heard it ever since he joined the Aurors.

“I used to be a lot shorter, too,” Galahad pointed out. “Now I can reach the cookie jar _and_ Dad’s liquor cabinet.”

“I had high hopes you were going to take after your papa,” she continued, ignoring him. “But no. You’re a Graves, through and through, down to the martyr-like tendencies.”

“Hey,” Galahad protested. “I’m not as bad as Dad.” _No one_ was as bad as Dad.

Weiss patted his head. “Of course you’re not.”

Galahad counted it a personal victory that she hadn’t tried to pinch his cheeks. “It really doesn’t surprise me that you and Dad get along so well.”

“Bite your tongue, Galahad Graves. Your father is insufferable.”

“Yeah,” said Galahad. “He likes you too.”


	26. New York, May 1930

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the delightful [JLencre,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JLencre/pseuds/JLencre) who wanted to see Credence rescuing himself and Galahad. I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Credence is a Graves, and he's no one's damsel in distress.

_New York, May 1930_

 

Credence’s head hurt. He groaned and opened his eyes. Something had woken him, but he wasn’t sure what.

Galahad screamed, the sound high and piercing, cutting through his headache like a knife.

Credence bolted upright. Gally _never_ screamed like that. That was a fear scream, not an angry one. The sudden movement did his aching head no favors. Credence barely managed to roll over enough so that he could vomit onto the cold stone beneath him instead of all over himself.

“I have not missed this,” he muttered, making a face at the mess. He had a lot of it to look forward to in the next couple of months. He was not looking forward to it at all.

Gally’s screaming faded into terrified sobbing. Credence scrambled to his feet and looked around for his son, desperate to comfort him.

He ran straight into the magical barrier separating their cells.

Gally saw him and held his hands out, wailing again when the barrier stung them.

“Oh, baby, no,” Credence said, dropping to his knees. “Don’t touch, okay? Don’t touch, it’s ouchie.”

“Papa!” Gally sobbed. “Papa, nonono.”

“It’s okay, baby. Papa’s going to get you out of there,” Credence promised. He smashed his fist into the barrier of his cell, letting his magic well up and shield him from the worst of the sting. “Hey!” he yelled. “HEY! LET ME OUT!”

Someone stuck his head through the door. “Shut up!” he roared.

Credence bared his teeth. “If you don’t let me have my son in the next _five seconds_ it will be the last thing you ever do,” he promised.

“Oh,” said the man, nonplussed. “You’re awake. Fucking _finally.”_

“Swear jar,” Credence said automatically.

The man stared at him.

Credence gave him an imperious stare. “My son is twenty months old,” he informed the man. “That’s old enough to pick up new vocabulary. I’ll thank you not to teach him vulgar language.”

“Fucking hell,” said the man. “If I let him in with you, can you shut him up?”

Credence wanted to tell him that the only reason Gally was crying was because he wanted his parents and he was _terrified,_ but he held his tongue. “Yes,” he said.

The man nodded. “Right,” he said. “I’ll get the boss.” He pulled his head back through the door.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Credence promised Galahad.

“The boss” turned out to be a stick-thin wizard with a shaved head that had been tattooed with a number of magical symbols.

“So you’re Credence Graves,” he said, watching Credence and Galahad with eerie, yellow-green eyes. “And that,” he added, voice thick with satisfaction, “is Grindelwald’s general.”

Credence froze. The only people who knew what Grindelwald had wanted Galahad for were Grindelwald’s followers. Percival had caught most of them before Galahad was a year old, but a couple of them had gone to ground.

Apparently one of them had just resurfaced.

He gritted his teeth. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing yet,” the man said airily, dismissing the barrier keeping Credence from Galahad. “I’m sure a man as powerful as yourself can be persuaded to be reasonable.”

Credence scooped his son up, doing his best to shield Gally from the man’s eyes. “Hush, baby,” he said. Galahad pressed his face against Credence’s shoulder and sobbed. “Papa’s got you. You’re going to be fine. It’s okay.”

He bounced Galahad in his arms, praying Galahad wasn’t old enough to remember this. He didn’t want his son’s first memories to be fearful ones.

Gally eventually cried himself out, whimpering miserably when Credence checked his diaper.

“Didn’t either of you think to change him?” he demanded, incensed.

“I don’t know nothing about babies,” said the henchwizard, hunching his shoulders guiltily.

“Change?” the wizard in charge said blankly.

_“Idiots,”_ spat Credence. “He’s been crying because his diaper is wet and he’s terrified. You could have at least left him _with_ me, if you weren’t going to change his diaper.”

“You’re hardly in a position to criticize, Mr. Graves,” the wizard in charge said.

“Aren’t I?” Credence demanded. He reached for his wand so he could tend to Gally, but of course they’d taken that. “May I have my wand back, please?”

“No,” said the stick-thin wizard.

Credence folded his arms across his chest. “Then I suggest that _someone_ find me something I can use as a fresh diaper,” he said, using Percival’s _this is not actually a suggestion_ voice.

“You are also not in a position to issue demands,” said the other wizard, waspish. He clearly didn’t like having to explain these things to Credence.

“Neglecting my son is hardly going to make me see reason,” Credence snarled. He didn’t give a fig for what the other wizard did or didn’t like.

“I got a rag?” the henchwizard offered.

“Thank you,” Credence said, catching the rag when the henchwizard tossed it at him. Objects could pass through the barrier without harm. That was good to know. He wondered if that extended to magical objects as well. Grindelwald’s hadn’t, but his current captor wasn’t Grindelwald.

The rag was cleaner than Gally’s diaper. Credence resolved to _scourgify_ it clean as soon as his captors were out of sight. It was better not to reveal just how _much_ wandless magic he could do.

He got Gally cleaned up and dressed again, cuddling him close. He needed the contact just as much as Galahad did.

The stick-thin wizard pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Douglas,” he said. “Please leave. Douglas is a bit of a soft touch,” he confided. “I will show you no such mercy.”

Credence glared at him and said nothing.

“I am not afraid to torture you if I must,” the man clarified.

Credence’s experience with torture wasn’t as extensive as Percival’s, but he’d labored for nineteen hours to bring Galahad into the world, and he was pretty sure he could outlast whatever this miserable excuse for a wizard wanted to do.

He wasn’t the only one at risk, though.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I want you to help power a spell,” his captor said. “You needn’t concern yourself with what it is. It would ordinarily be the world of a whole coven, but with your reserves at my disposal, I’m sure we can manage between us.”

Credence pressed a kiss to the side of Galahad’s head. Gally was clearly exhausted, but he’d hit the point of being too worked up to sleep, even now that he’d cried himself out. He turned his head into Credence’s chest and fussed weakly. “Dada,” he whimpered. “Want Dada!”

“Daddy’s coming,” Credence promised. Percival would always come for them.

“Percival Graves hasn’t even noticed you’re missing, yet,” his captor taunted. “No one’s coming for you.”

We’ll just see about that, Credence thought.

“What’s the spell?” he asked.

“What?”

“The spell you want me to power. What is it?”

“I told you, that’s none of your concern.”

“Is it something I can help you with now? I’d like to be home before dinner,” Credence said.

“Mr. Graves,” said his captor. “I don’t think you quite understand the gravity of your situation.”

“Is the spell ready or not?” Credence asked, impatient. “And what did you do with my groceries, anyway?”

His captor said nothing.

“You _left them behind?”_ Credence said, outraged by the waste. He’d had _plans_ for that beef. Romantic dinner plans, and now this idiot had _wasted food_ meant for Percival.

That was the absolute outside of enough.

_“Accio_ wand,” he said.

The stick-thin wizard scoffed at him. “You can’t --”

“I am Credence Graves,” Credence told him as crashing noises heralded the arrival of his wand from the other room. “And I think you’ll find I _can.”_ He aimed his wand at the barrier between them. _“Finite incantatem.”_

The idiot hadn’t even bothered to put up magic-suppressing wards. Stupid, Credence thought. The idiot _knew_ how powerful Credence was. He ought to have taken better precautions if he meant to hold Credence prisoner for any length of time.

_“Incarcerus,”_ he said, binding the man’s hands behind his back.

Credence perched Galahad on his hip while he patted his former captor down, producing a wand and a wickedly curving dagger that was probably meant to intimidate him. He tucked the man’s wand in his own holster, tossed the dagger into the corner and then gagged him.

“I had plans for tonight, you know,” he informed his prisoner. “I was going to go home and make pot roast -- I make excellent pot roast -- and rosemary mashed potatoes and green beans fried with bits of bacon. I had a pie from Kowalski’s bakery for dessert, and some danishes for breakfast-in-bed tomorrow! And then I was going to tell Percival the good news and drag him off to bed -- or let him drag me off to bed, I’m not picky -- but no! You had to send poor Douglas to -- to _hit me_ over the had like some kind of brute and now I have a headache and I want to throw up again -- and I _hate_ throwing up -- and you frightened my son and I had to spend my evening being incompetently kidnapped instead!” He was yelling by the end of it, angry enough that his magic made the room shake.

He felt an enormous surge of magic as a door somewhere else in the house was blasted off its hinges. Or, knowing Percival, blasted into nothing more than splinters.

“Credence!” yelled Percival.

“Over here,” Credence called.

Percival barely paused to check the room for traps before he swept Credence and Galahad into his arms. “Are you alright?” he asked, checking both of them for damage. He cupped Galahad’s cheek, careful and tender, before smoothing his hand over their son’s hair. He leaned in to kiss Credence, hard and fast, before pulling back to growl at the blood in his hair. “Who hurt you?” he demanded.

“Leave Douglas be,” Credence told him. _“This_ idiot is the person who’s really responsible.”

Percival seemed to notice his prisoner for the first time. “You seem to have this well at hand,” he said, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

Credence knew that smirk. Percival got it whenever he was particularly impressed with something Credence had done. It meant he was thinking about getting Credence naked and pressed against the nearest surface as soon as possible.

“Percival,” he said.

Percival adopted a sober, definitely-not-thinking-sex-thoughts expression. “I have to admit, I thought this would be more dramatic,” he remarked, floating Credence’s prisoner behind them. “A proper rescue.”

“You’re still my hero,” Credence assured him.

“You can roleplay the knight saving the princess later,” Win advised.

Tina punched Win in the shoulder. “Mercy Lewis,” she swore. “Don’t _say_ things like that!” They had poor Douglas cuffed between them. He didn’t look like he’d put up much of a fight either.

“You brought the cavalry,” Credence said, pleased.

“For you and Galahad? I brought a fucking army. Half of MACUSA wanted to come.”

“Language,” Credence said absently. “You’re going to be late for dinner, aren’t you?”

Percival made a face. “We’re all going to be late for dinner,” he said. “You need to be checked by a Healer and then statemented, and I need to deal with these idiots.”

Credence mentally said goodbye to his plans for the evening. “Wonderful,” he said darkly.

**Author's Note:**

> [I am also on tumblr.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/) You are more than welcome to come scream about fandom with me there. Driveby shouty comments, headcanons and prompts are also welcome!
> 
> If you'd like to read these in chronological order, [there is also a timeline](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/possibleversetimeline) on my tumblr. ;)


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